Inconvenient Ideals
by alizarincrims0n
Summary: Hermione is determined, but when she is faced with death she must choose between giving up, or throwing herself into the awaiting arms of Draco Malfoy. Will he be able to mend her broken memories? Or will his selfish love get in the way? M for language, violence, and eventual sexual scenes.
1. A First Encounter

**Hi everyone, this is my first shot at both a Dramione and a novel length story so every piece of constructive criticism I can get would be great! I'm going to do my best to get one chapter up a week at the absolute minimum, and have planned on having roughly around 30 chapters in this story, so stay tuned and please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts :)**

**I have some song recommendations for this ****chapter: Milk teeth by Keaton Henson and Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks by The National**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 1: A First Encounter<span>**

The war took many things from Hermione Granger. It came into the life of an eleven year old girl and clung to her shoulders like a giant leech, ugly, black and overstaying its welcome. And when it had finished taking all the peace from her heart, it stayed a while longer, because its thirst wasn't quenched until its teeth had tasted the last of her hope. Then it was gone, taking her best friend with it, parting with her only to drop a cloak of sorrow around her quivering frame. She was alone. So utterly and truly alone. And she'd never been so scared of her own mind, and of what was to come.

She would often wonder how Ron managed to be normal, calm, to seem so collected. After Harry disappeared, her world shattered into thousands of tiny fragments, and it scared her, because as much as Hermione had thought she'd known fear, she was wrong; no amount of experience could _ever_ be enough. Harry had been their beacon, their light in a dark room, the reason they fought, and their hope beyond death. Hermione didn't think she could have ever been as logical and brave if Harry hadn't been by her side, her unknowing beam of support, and the hand on her shoulder in tough times. When she thought hard about him, before the tears came, she would acknowledge how he had been the fundamental root of her and Ron, the glue that had made the three of them inseparable. Without him they were aimless, missing purpose, but most of all, lonely. It made sense now, how any chance of a future with Ron seemed impossible, as far away as every constellation that mocked them as they slept. She wondered if it would have been different if Harry were with them, but then maybe his absence was just life's cruel and twisted way of saying that they could never have worked.

Sometimes, she wanted to scream at Ron, to beat his chest and demand that he show pain. Because she just _couldn't_ be the only one. Hermione Granger could _not_ fall apart. She didn't know that she already had, that those shards of her world had already slipped beyond her grasp, and only a very warped hand of humanity held the faintest possibly of stitching them back together again. Because it would take decades to find them all, and even then her sense of peace would never be the same. If only Ron would hold her like he used to, and let her cry on his shoulder, and he on hers, because they both _needed_ this. Mourning.

But instead he would grab her wrists like an iron vice and push her back, and yell his heated breath in her face until she felt spittle catch her cheeks.

"He's dead! He's gone 'ermione! He left us!" And then he would retreat, shove furniture, and break his mother's china. Hermione would stand and watch while trembling, her vision glazed with tears, and she would _know _that the weight of a world without Harry sat heavier on Ron's shoulders than it did on her own.

Later on she would stand by his locked door, her forehead pressed into the splintering wood, with her hands clutching her wand to her chest. It was a comforting gesture, and the tingling current of magic beneath her fingertips warmed her and dulled the ache. She knew he would be deaf to anything she said; even if he had wanted to listen he wouldn't have heard the whisper that passed her lips. "You're wrong. He'll come back."

Yet somehow, she didn't know if she believed her own words.

She left the Burrow the next morning with bruises wrapped around her wrists. The war took Harry Potter from her, and maybe in a way it took Ron as well.

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><p>To Hermione, the Burrow had been the only place that held any inkling of safety. It had been one of the last of the Order's safe houses. Most of the others had fallen victim to destruction, now pitiful piles of rubble, shortly after Voldemort's victory. People were scared, and those who didn't flee the country, changed sides over death threats. The Wizarding world had been chaos, and it still was, only now the flames had been tamed, and those that hadn't feigned indifference to the Dark Lord's reign had been either killed or imprisoned, depending on their blood status. There wasn't a muggle-born alive who wasn't in hiding. The major cities of every country had unnoticed Death Eaters and Snatchers roaming throughout the streets. The witches or wizards who weren't fortunate enough to recognise them for what they were, were caught, interrogated, and then either tortured or released. Blood was thick, and it would coat and stick to each magical home that defied the Dark Lord.<p>

Hermione only knew a little about what was going on in the Wizarding world. She'd known more through her stay at the Burrow, before the pain drove her out. All she knew now was how to pretend to be okay, and how to walk the streets without making eye contact with a single person. She knew it was completely mental for her to stay in London, but she also knew that it would be expected of her to leave, and there'd probably be more Death Eaters waiting for her elsewhere, than in the bustling streets around the city's centre.

She was Hermione Granger, and she had a price on her shoulders, worth nearly as much as Harry Potter. Her gloved fists tightened in her coat pockets, and she walked a little faster, weaving herself through strings of morning commuters. She envied the muggles, for being indifferent, for not knowing. Not knowing that a war had gone on right under their noses. Although sometimes she had a strange feeling that they _knew_. Maybe it was the way she would brush shoulders with an older woman, who would turn her head and give Hermione a look too long to hold anything other than recognition. Or maybe it was because when she saw them she saw herself, innocent and idealistic, who she used to be.

She'd been away from the Burrow for three weeks now, five months since the war ended. Although she supposed it never really ended, not completely, and it never would. Everyone would carry around their own small reminder of war in their hearts, and Hermione didn't think that was something that could ever change. As long as humans had hearts they would always be at war. Just not the sort of war that was full of bloodshed and heartache. Not the kind that slaughtered friends and family before your eyes, or took your best friend away from you.

Hermione swallowed. She willed herself to not think of Harry. It was hard to do though, especially when his face looked back at her around every corner and from behind every street sign. There were posters of his face tacked up all around the city. "_Wanted: serious criminal offender. If sighted please phone_-". They were black and white, dull, and a blasé expression stared out from behind his cracked glasses. Sometimes Hermione would walk right past them, either in her hasty steps or because they looked so dissimilar to Harry that she didn't blink twice at them. Other times, she would stop, her breath a hard knot in her throat, and she'd have to shake herself before the trembling started. When this happened, she would usually tear them down, rip them to shreds, and then walk away scrubbing angrily at her eyes. She always had to be quick though, because no normal person rips down a poster of a wanted criminal and walks away crying, it was suspicious, and she'd learnt to be wary of unwanted eyes following her from every angle.

The first week had been the hardest. Despite Hermione's adept talent at spells and magic, it had taken her three days to master the charm to turn her hair a different colour. The first time it had turned a sickly shade of green, which would be about as noticeable as a mandrake in a graveyard. The second time was mildly successful when it became a sandy colour, but it was still too similar to her normal brown waves. She needed it to be different, unnoticeable, but not too bizarre. She was satisfied enough when she faded it to a pale blonde, and cut it to her shoulders for extra caution. It was nearing winter so covering up in heavy layers of clothing wouldn't be a problem, being recognisable was never what she dreaded, it was where to go that scared her.

As soon as she had stepped out of the protective wards of the Burrow, her heart had pleaded with her to return to her parents. To find them and weep like a child, to have them hold her. Only she knew that if she did this, she'd never let go. And Hermione wasn't the type of girl who could live life unplanned, without knowing what would happen next. Besides, the memory charms she'd put on them before she left with Harry and Ron had been strong ones, and there was no guarantee that they'd be easily lifted. It was something Hermione refused to think about. As far as her parents knew, they didn't have a daughter, and right now, she could not risk having parents. It was better this way.

It was far too risky to stay at the Leaky Cauldron, she might as well march right into Diagon Alley with her nose in the air and a target taped to her forehead. Instead, she stayed in a dilapidated youth hostel on Harrow Road. Those nights alone had cost half of the last of her savings. The first night had been a restless nights sleep due to the undying noise of drunken male stupor, and the morning had been no better as it greeted her with a bad headache. She had woken late, the suns rays trying desperately to peek beyond the tightly drawn, tattered floral curtains. As much as she'd wanted to open them and relish in the morning light, aside from the fact that they'd probably break if she tried, the darkness was safer. And it was because she knew this that she stayed in the creaky metal bed until dusk, her teeth gnawing ugly welts on her inside lip, and her eyes unmoving from the crooked floorboards.

Her watch read the time as ten past eleven when she first heard the shouts. There'd been male, then female, and the harsh banging of a fist on wood. Hermione's instinct raged in her chest, and she broke the closure of her blanket cocoon to grab her wand and reach for the door. Her hand hesitated as the female began crying, and although Hermione knew that they were further away than the room next door, the wails crawled up the walls to haunt her.

It was then that she realised that her days of playing a hero had been over for a long time now. This was a lover's problem, and lover's would be the ones to solve it, proven minutes later by the sounds of feminine moans. She had no right to intrude.

Hermione slumped to floor with a thud, her wand fell from her cold, clammy palms, rolling a few feet away. She stared at it, thinking about magic, and asking anyone who would listen why it had been _her_? Her that got to stand by the golden boy, the boy who lived. Maybe she never was a hero, it was all just Harry. Harry Potter. And maybe she was nothing. Just a sidekick. Perhaps she always knew this, and that was why she tried so hard through school, to get good grades, because she knew she'd never be as heroic as her best friend. Knowledge was found in books, and books were what she _knew. _They'd been her way of proving that the world needed her.

The girl down the hall didn't need her. Her parents didn't need her. Neither did Ron. And what if Harry Potter never needed her either. What if he still didn't?

She didn't remember crawling into bed hours later. The pillow was just as hard as the previous night, the covers just as scratchy, and Hermione didn't sleep. She just stared at a blank point in the darkness, vaguely making out the shape of a flower on the tacky wallpaper, her fingers never loosening the death grip they held on her wand.

It was nearing five am when her sock clad toes curled and her teeth clenched. She would find him, she had to. Because she still needed him. And so did the rest of the world.

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><p>It was overcast and midday when Hermione was walking down Tottenham Court Road and caught sight of Justin Finch-Fletchly through the throng of impatient shoppers. His hair was longer and his eyes were tired, and Hermione wanted to yell out to him and push people to the pavement just to run to where he stood. She couldn't move though, her feet wouldn't let her, and when the tall buildings surrounding them channeled the wind through her hair and into her face, she was blinded.<p>

When she looked up, he was gone.

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><p>The wind was vicious, so her scarf was wrapped tighter than usual round her neck, and the hood of her jacket shielded her features from view. She walked briskly, eyes down and ears alert.<p>

Hermione would never get used to days full of backward glances and constant vigilance. She expected herself to be well acquainted with her nomadic lifestyle by now, of days full of hiding, waiting, casting and running. It was what the war taught her, what it taught everyone. But now she was alone, and that made all the difference. There was no one she could rely on, no one that could rely on her. There was no Ron, and definitely no Harry. Ron never contacted her, and although it left a dull pang in her chest it did not come as a surprise. Maybe because she was just as much of a reminder of Harry to him as Ron was to her, and seeing each other just made the big gaping hole in their chests more noticeable.

But it had been eight weeks now, so many days since she had sat huddled in the corner of a dingy hostel with nothing but bad thoughts and lovemaking noises for company, and Hermione liked to think she'd gotten stronger. Stronger in the sense that she was slowly numbing herself to fear. She was used to what happened next, turning a street corner and having to immediately slam her back into the uneven bricks behind her. She didn't know if the black hoods she'd seen had been the pointed ones that plagued her dreams or the drawn up jackets of misguided teenagers.

As she caught her breath and tried to focus on the bricks digging into her shoulder blades instead of the beating in her rib cage, she glanced into the shop window to the left of her. It was filled with the ornaments of a Christmas soon to come. Little nutcracker soldiers stood in neat rows of an imaginary march and a small wooden train sat immobile on it's matching tracks. Tinsel and star shaped confetti decorated the layout of ceramic nativity scenes that travelled around candle holders and vases of holly. Fallen leaves of green sat delicately atop a glass snow globe, and the angel inside it held such a beautiful sadness that it took Hermione's breath away. For a moment she could have sworn that the angel waved at her, the white of her garbs swishing in the fallen snow of her globe, but Hermione knew this was London, and that moving ornaments in a muggle shop would be out of the question. She thought nothing of it, only that her hunger was probably getting to her.

Although it was a beautiful little display, it made Hermione yearn for her mother's christmas pudding, and her father's roast turkey. It aroused memories of itchy pine needles and silver christmas balls, but most of all it brought back to her a common room filled with cheer and the colours of red and gold. With one last look at the snow globe and the lonely angel within, Hermione turned away.

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><p>Between sneaking into closed cafes, sleeping in booths, and eventually using the Imperius curse on hotel clerks to manipulate them into believing she was a well known patron, she'd managed to catch wind of snippets of news from the Wizarding world.<p>

The first time was when she'd overheard a hushed conversation between two women, evidently witches, in a cafe. She had been sitting in the booth behind them, and had to stop herself from spitting the coffee out of her mouth and back into her cup when they mentioned the constant killings of muggleborns. Even certain half bloods were being locked up in Azkaban.

"And rightly so," said one, a little too loudly. Hermione wanted to smack her. The other witch hushed her companion. "They are scum, Mathilda." She repeated, albeit quietly. Hermione felt sick, so she'd left in a hurry before the bile could come up and make their hair a little prettier.

The second time, she had been extremely lucky, narrowly escaping the eyes of a bedraggled man she assumed to be a snatcher, she hastily hopped on the first train to travel through the Underground. When she'd looked up and given a casual glance to the seat in front of her where a balding man in a tweed suit sat, her eyes had widened in momentary shock when she'd realised he was holding a copy of _The Daily Prophet_.

She'd tried to act as inconspicuous as any person could while peeking over the shoulder of another passenger to be nosy about what they were reading. Fortunately, no body seemed to notice Hermione's peculiar interest with the man's newspaper. Her heart was erratic in her chest as she found out two things before the train came to a stop and the wizard folded his paper and departed.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was dead. And Harry Potter had been sighted.

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><p>Harry was <em>seen<em>. Someone _saw_ him. _Who_? Where? None of that mattered. Justin was dead though, and that mattered. Hermione's chest ached and her head throbbed. _Justin._ At the same time the war had numbed her, it made loss worse. Brave, brave Justin, alone in a world that didn't want him, like her. Gone. She couldn't bear to think of how or why, and more specifically _who,_ because if she did then she knew she wouldn't be able to function, and she'd probably drop to her knees and curse any god that could ever exist. Instead she focused on Harry. He was _alive. _And at that Hermione felt breathless, impatient to do _something_. To go and find him. She couldn't be reckless, she had to _think_, she had to do what Hermione Granger did best.

She couldn't go to a library, it'd be far too quiet and she'd be easily recognised without the crowds to hide her. Besides, books wouldn't do her any good. She needed her brain, she needed to pretend to be in Harry's head, where would she go if she was him?

She knew that it could only mean one thing if he had indeed been seen. And that was that Harry Potter had never given up. She felt ashamed for all the moments throughout the past months that she had felt like giving up, like handing herself over. In her dire moments she had thought she'd give anything to find peace again, even death. How wrong she had been.

Harry Potter was alive, and that's all that mattered. If only there was a way she could tell Ron. At Ron, her heart sunk, and she felt a dread that would have come earlier if it hadn't been for her happiness. What if they were wrong? What if it was some other stranger with dark hair and round glasses? What then?

She shook her head, and gripped her stomach at the sharp pangs of hunger it sent up to her. Surviving without much food had been difficult, but not the hardest thing the war had taught her. What was harder was stealing. As much as Hermione knew she had to eat if she wanted to find Harry, stuffing chocolate bars and apples into her coat pockets never became easier.

She always had to pretend she was taking food so that small children wouldn't starve, that as soon as she exited the supermarket there'd be some lost orphan there waiting to take the loaf of bread from her arms. As much as she tried to convince herself she was not stealing for selfish reasons, she could never believe it.

The sky was darkening, and before she headed back to the hotel she knew she had to eat something. She could just get room service, but the thought of imperialising the waiters would hang heavier on her conscious than thievery.

She hurried past the last of late afternoon shoppers, nearly bumping shoulders with a tall man in a grey coat. The street lamps were beginning to flicker on, and people said their goodbyes and hurried to warm homes that Hermione could only dream of. She walked a little faster, the thought of a warm bed giving her the push she needed. Across the road, at the end of the street she could see the hint of a small corner store, and she made a beeline for it. Hermione could only be thankful she knew the streets of London so well from her childhood, otherwise she would have gotten lost long ago.

She let out a huff as she entered the warm shop, taking her gloves off and shoving them into her jean pockets, as it was a little _too_ hot. The salesman at the counter smiled and nodded at her, and she gave him a sort of bob of her head in return, trying not to think about how she was about to steal from him. She felt absolutely horrid, she always did.

Walking over to the apple crates with her head bent in embarrassment, Hermione's eyes scanned for the juiciest, reddest looking apples. They were harder to come by now that winter was there, but still they were her favourite kind, even if she came across them by illegal means. Her fingers shook slightly as her hand closed around one of the smallest pieces of fruit she could find, less conspicuous than a large bulge in her pocket.

"Can I help you mam'?" She jumped at the voice behind her back. As her voice stuttered out some lame response, the store's windows rattled with the passing of one of the cities many double-decker buses.

She cleared her throat with a newly formed reply "No, I'm fine-"

But she wasn't fine. Because she survived a war that never ended. Because she lost both of her best friends in a matter of weeks. Because she had seen evil that the stupid shopkeeper would only see in movies and comic books.

And because across the road, with the first crystals of the season's snowflakes gathering on his shoulders, stood Draco Malfoy.


	2. Choices and Lost Dignity

**Forgot to put this in the first chapter, so here it is, Disclaimer: I don't own anything, the wonderful characters belong to JKR! Please enjoy!**

**I recommend Placebo's 'Holocaust' and 'The Vampyre of Time and Memory' by Queens of the Stone Age, for Draco here :)**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 2: Choices and Lost Dignity<span>**

Lucius Malfoy was killed by Voldemort shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts came to a conclusion. Draco would never be able to think of that fucking creature as a Lord, in fact, despite his upbringing, he had never given him much thought at all. He supposed the only real feeling he would spare for him now would be a thanks. Thanks for taking the domineering figure in the shape of his father out of his life for good. Because as much as Draco would like to think that he would have been able to do it himself, to point his wand at the lost cause of Lucius Malfoy and speak the unthinkable, he knew he would have faltered.

His father had fled from Voldemort's reign, as if he thought he had a chance away from the cause he had lived for, and would in the end, die for. Draco had not been there when Lucius was torn apart in his own home, his blood striped across the floorboards, because he had already left, and if he hadn't, he knew that neither he or his mother would have been spared.

He had taken his mother with him, to Italy, to a place where no pathetic and evil slime could ever work it's way into their lives again. Yet, it could never be a home, just like the Manor hadn't. Because home was a castle back in Scotland, a place where Draco knew that he would never be able to go back to. Home died. He'd disfigured it into a bad memory of bone masks and vanishing cabinets. But he was unfamiliar with shame, so he decided not to put a name to the strange feeling constantly lurking in the pit of his stomach.

They had received news of his father's death by owl, and as he'd read the letter the laughter he had felt choke his stomach was an odd sensation that warred with the shaking of his fists. It was just so fitting, that the man who had ruled his son's his life with beatings and false words would come to an end from the very thing he had worshipped. Draco laughed, the tones constricting his vocal cords, and it did not die down until the parchment in his hands was in shreds and his eyes were bloodshot. _Regret_. Because _he_ should have done it. But he couldn't. And he would spend years mulling over the possibilities that would forever dance beyond his reach.

Narcissa had wept, long into the night, her cries fading through the crisp air, and Draco hoped that maybe she was crying with relief, or happiness, but half of him knew that his mother would always love Lucius, just like the part of him that had followed his father with a blind and disoriented respect. Power meant fear. And it repulsed him.

There was no funeral. And even if there had been the dead man's own son would not have attended. Failure coated his stomach as thickly as it had his fathers, and he would die where he stood if Voldemort were to ever find him.

Italy was a bad conjecture of hours of nothing, only lines and lines of black on a page, yet reading was the only way to keep his mind busy. Because even something a muggle had written couldn't possibly be as boring as the weeks that he monotonously lived through.

Sometimes, when his eyes hurt and he couldn't bare to read another word, he would think of Potter. And somewhere tucked beneath a pile of untouched thoughts, a small sliver of disappointment would nudge it's way to the surface. What had he expected? That the bloody excuse of a wizard would swoop in and save the day? That he and Weasley would be crowned heroes and they'd all live happily ever after? It was bullshit. Complete _shit_. And Draco didn't know which pissed him off more, the fact that they could have done it, could have beaten the war, or the fact that they didn't.

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><p>When the moon woke him with a maddening sweat and dreams he could not shake off, he would sit through the hours and stare at the mark etched into the white of his forearm, a constant reminder of wrong choices and a belief in the greater good. He wanted to rip his skin from his bones, erase the black traces of death that clung to his being and mocked him. But he couldn't. He only sat there, wondering if he could turn back time, how could he have possibly done anything differently?<p>

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><p>Narcissa had owls deliver them <em>the Prophet, <em>and Draco would only glance at the front page before flicking his gaze away. He knew what they'd run from, a world in ruins, and as much as he wanted to think _'fuck that'_ and get on with life, he just couldn't. Maybe that was because he'd left a part of himself behind in the ashes of the wizarding world in England, and it was begging for him to return for it.

So one morning he simply left. The silhouette of the mountain villa was swallowed by the pinks and blues of dawn, and he didn't try to reason with himself. Because if he did that, something inside of him that he had always tried so hard to ignore, might begin to _care_.

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><p>"<em>Draco!<em>" It was a hiss, and it slithered over his left shoulder like a slug, dragging irritable memories with it.

"Parkinson?" He already knew it was her. He didn't understand why the reaffirmation need to slip from his tongue, possibly so that if he tried hard enough, she'd evaporate and never drape her stupid and sorry carcass over his person again.

Much to his chagrin, he turned around and there she stood, Pansy Parkinson, one of the main things he'd been perfectly content with leaving behind and never looking back on. Her pug shaped nose was scrunched up, her thin brows twisted into a frown, and she eyed him cautiously, as if _he _was the one who would randomly evaporate.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?" It took him several blinks before he noticed the tight grip she had on her wand by her hip, and the smug and confident person who used to be Draco Malfoy was less than pleased that his old classmate was so evidently bothered by his presence. "You're dead."

A low chuckle escaped from his throat, and he eyed her with an amusement that held traces of something more, something neither of them could distinguish, pity, maybe. "You wouldn't think so, would you? What with me standing here and all. Unless that was meant as a threat?"

She glared at him. It was the same glare from so long ago, the one that now flashed behind his eyelids. Darkness and an empty dorm lit with candles. She'd been on her knees in front of him, her hair mussed and her eyes a lust filled haze as she'd looked up at him from between his legs. He had succumbed to pleasure, spilling himself into her mouth, and it was then when her eyes narrowed up at him, a seething glare.

The memory nearly made him question the blood on her face. _Nearly_. She wouldn't have answered him though, because now they were worlds apart, and Draco didn't know if that was something he would one day come to regret.

Her lips twitched as if to speak, but were stopped by the same hesitance that had captured him mere moments ago. He didn't wait for her to say anything, because he knew she couldn't, so the knowledge of unsaid words hung heavily in the void between them. Instead he turned, and left her alone in the dimness of Knockturn Alley.

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><p>His meeting with Parkinson had confirmed several things. The Death Eaters had thought him dead. Did that mean Voldemort had lied to them? Or did he actually believe that somehow and somewhere he and his mother had been killed? It meant that no one was looking for him, and Draco didn't know whether it was relief or disappointment that he felt. It certainly made things easier for him to not have unwanted company while he tried to figure out just what the fuck he was doing there.<p>

Diagon Alley had been deserted, empty streets devoid of life and closed shopfronts with barricaded windows. He had only seen a handful of people, all of whom had been heading in the direction of Gringotts, meaning that even the purebloods only came out when they deemed it absolutely necessary.

He'd felt lost, traversing the barren roads but for the sparse residue of the autumn's leaves crackling beneath his shoes. There was no beckoning of magic that drew him in, nothing that welcomed the familiar as he strode past the stores that had been so _alive_ on all the countless times he'd previously visited. No bright swatches of colourful robes, no pleasant smell of food wafting through the air, no voices, nothing. Just bleakness. And it was _not_ right.

Knockturn Alley had proven somewhat more lively, if only slightly, but even there the witches and wizards kept to themselves, never meeting his eyes. This was in his favour, as even beneath the hood of his cloak, the whiteness of the hair shrouding his eyes would still be noticeable.

He'd stopped to glance into Borgin and Burkes, the darkness of the room pulling him into unwelcome memories. He growled when he felt the swirling of turmoil scratching at his insides, the feeling that creeped around him often these days, swallowing him when he least expected it, and he hated it. He _hated_ his failure. Then why was he relieved that he hadn't succeeded?

It was then when Pansy Parkinson had found him, glaring stupidly into the fog of his breath on the window panes.

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><p>After paying a hurried visit to Gringotts, begrudging the goblins for being so apathetic towards the empty world around them, and withdrawing a hefty sum of money from his family's bank vault, mentally and spitefully practicing some obscene gestures he wished his father could see, he found himself on the streets of muggle London.<p>

And dare he admit it, but he'd never felt so lost. It was mid afternoon, and impatient people who had clearly been brought up without manners, typical for muggles, pushed past him as if he were just some unworthy light post in their path, an obstacle that had foul looks thrown at him. He scowled back at anyone who possessed the guts to look down upon a Malfoy, ignoring the fact that no one here would even have the faintest clue about Malfoy's and their supreme heritage. He wanted to scoff and call them filthy names, until he realised that the only probable reason for their unpleasantries would be the dark robes that he still wore. Muggles were simple, pathetic creatures, he reminded himself, and they clearly didn't take well to anyone who was apparently different to them, or wore unusual garments.

If he had been but a few months wiser, he would have picked up on the irony that wanted to make itself known, but right now he was still the Draco Malfoy that turned his mouth down in disgust at the things he'd been raised to hate, at the blood that was inexplicably and irrevocably different to his.

Next to him, a disheveled man with a potbelly sent a globule of his spit flying to the pavement, and Draco had never before felt himself as high above another person as he had at that moment.

* * *

><p>As much as he would have liked to buy the fanciest, priciest penthouse in London, he knew it would be more prudent to disappear, and pretend he didn't exist, than to flaunt his existence as a Malfoy. Because somewhere a brooding thought nagged at his mind, that if Voldemort somehow got word of him being seen, he would be dead before breakfast. There was something else though, that tickled his gut and contradicted his prior notion, and that was that somehow Voldemort didn't care whether he lived or died, and that was why he was still breathing and walking today. No, his life didn't matter it seemed, because if it did he would most likely be dead already. And that brought him to his next thought, that somehow their current dictator had been weakened or incapacitated. Why else would he be so nonchalant about any living being who had acted toward him with traitorous intent? Because that's what Draco was right? A traitor? That's why his father had been murdered, for his fear and betrayal. His <em>father. <em>Could he possibly? Could there have been a way that Lucius Malfoy had caused some kind of damage to his Lord in his last moments before death? After all, there had been no news of Voldemort anywhere since the day that the parchment had arrived in his hands, there had only been constant images of a distressed world, dimmed by the disappearance of Harry Potter. Draco shook his head. No, his father had been a coward, just like his son. His teeth gnashed together. Then what about Potter? Could he have-?

Someone bumped his shoulder, brushing past him, just as so many others had done that day. So why did he turn around? Why did he fight with the urge that was simmering beneath his skin? The urge to grab them and shout at them until maybe they slapped him and yelled back. He watched the retreating figure of a female, the slouch of her defeated shoulders and the pace of her determined steps ringing warning bells in the recesses of his mind, but he didn't listen, he only wondered.

* * *

><p>He had managed to purchase a more appropriate set of attire in a stuffy muggle shop that had been blaring such a pathetic and simple beat, he supposed they called it music, that he thought his ears would bleed. He was already in a foul mood, first being confused when the salesmen scanned his items with some inferior black device which emitted a red light, and then being utterly stumped when the bored man behind the counter had announced the total cost of the clothing with such a bland tone that Draco wanted to hit him. He also wanted to hit him because he didn't have a damn clue what "eighty-nine pounds" meant in muggle currency, and Draco never liked being wrong at anything, let alone admitting it, so he had simply taken out ten slips of his exchanged galleons from Gringotts, and lay them expectantly out before him.<p>

The salesman gave a grunt, and then an affronted sort of laugh, before halting and eyeing Draco skeptically over the top of his spectacles, a look which irked him even more, as it bore traces of the look his late headmaster had been prone to giving, and sent that familiar ache leaking into his gut.

After looking at Draco a little longer, most likely trying to detect any hint of humour and coming up with nothing, the man only took two of the bills, sliding the rest back towards Draco.

Draco didn't bother thanking the man, as he hadn't been of any help whatsoever, and exited the shop as soon as he had grabbed the bag of his purchases, making a mental note to learn about muggle money later, as much as it vexed him to do so.

That was how that night found him, sprawled out on the cold carpet of a hotel room floor, money spilled from his pockets and sitting in fat wads beside him. Damn it all. Why was he here? What was he doing? And when he couldn't find an answer his fist clenched and he pounded the floor.

He got to his feet, paced. Sat down on the tasteless leather couch and then got up and paced some more. He was restless, an animal trapped in a cage, and he didn't know how to get out, or even _if_ he could get out.

He took out his wand and destroyed the bed posts and a desk in a corner, watching detachedly as the wood splintered and landed in fragments around his feet. And then he paced some more.

* * *

><p>Draco thought that maybe the first time he had seen Hermione Granger was when she'd walked past him a week ago on that dark afternoon, and that was why he had experienced that sudden desire to shout and shake her. A mudblood. And she was still alive. And for some reason the hate didn't come, only a deepening curiosity as he watched her from across a busy cafe, her hands gripped firmly around a mug as if it grounded her to reality. Her dark eyes were wary, flitting around her nervously, yet she failed to notice him, whether this was due to the strength of his concealment charms or if she was just that oblivious, he didn't know.<p>

But he did know that whatever strength she'd gathered to involve herself in a pointless aftermath of war was gradually dwindling. The smudges of sleepless nights clung to her eyes, Draco knew this because he saw the same ones on his own face whenever his reflection caught him, and the murky blonde of her hair was evidence of a weakening colour charm. It was short, strange, and didn't suit her at all, and why the fuck would he even notice something as stupid as her hair anyway? Maybe because he had been so used to seeking out the past bushiness of it through halls and classrooms, if only to throw a jab at her blood and knock her down, and now that it was different he couldn't ridicule her for it. And as much as he denied it, she was a haunting reminder of his days at Hogwarts, days he sometimes wished he could return to, and even now sent him pangs of longing. There was a strange part of him that wanted to walk up to her table and sit down, to start an argument, because maybe just like him she was alone, and it would be familiar, and then everything would be normal again. _Mudblood. Filth. Scum. Stupid Gryffindor. Fucking Granger. _And damn because his resolve was weakening, but then she'd clumsily rushed to her feet, frantically almost, and left.

Anger had pulsed through his veins, at his thoughts for lacking their usual venom towards her, at the way she'd hurried from the cafe, and annoyance because he had wanted to hex her before she vanished and he'd be alone again, but he hadn't.

* * *

><p>So he'd followed her. He'd been there as she had whispered <em>'Imperio'<em> on her first victim, the hotel clerk of a place he himself would have had no problem with affording. He had watched her, highly amused at the prospect of innocent Gryffindor Granger unfolding into a life of crime, and the red her face had turned gave him great enjoyment.

He'd stood behind corners as she stole apples and candy bars and he'd seen the pain on her face that her actions gave her. He'd wanted to feel delighted at her discomfort, he wanted to relish in it, but the part of him that demanded he follow her was the same part of him that stopped his features from expressing anything other than the grim reality that Granger was faced with. In fact, he too would be just like her if he hadn't been fortunate enough to have access to the Malfoy's accounts, let alone his own personal vault that was meant to see him through to retirement.

_Just like her. _Except he didn't have dirty blood. Except for his decision to linger in a world which for her would no doubt mean peril. He had chosen to return, yet he doubted Granger had much of a choice in the matter, what with being a stubborn sod of a Gryffindor and all that crap. She probably thought that by hanging around the city like a bad smell, Potter would come and save her and defeat them all. What a pathetic life. It made him want to laugh, and at the same time falter, because were his actions really so unlike her own? He'd returned. For what, he still didn't know.

At any rate he was surprised she wasn't dead by now, a thought which stuck to his mind throughout the next weeks and mutated into something _different_.

There had been times in his life where he had thought of Granger's death with great glee, yet now he often wondered what he would do if she were to suddenly be killed in front of him. Because he knew that that was what happened to them, to mudbloods, to those inferior, they were disposed of. He'd heard word of what was happening to them, to those that Voldemort considered worthless, and he didn't know what to listen to, his mind that yelled for a cleaner world, or that tiny spot in his heart that he liked to pretend didn't exist.

* * *

><p>Sometimes when he saw her running, hiding in places he knew even a blind man could distinguish, he would wonder why Weasley wasn't with her. Maybe he'd gone off on his own sodding suicide hunt for potter, but then he realised that it was unlikely. If there was anything he had learnt from seven years of loathing towards the three of them, it was that they were joined at the fucking hip. Whereas he'd had Crabbe and Goyle, people he'd rather keep around for safeties sake rather than company, and sometimes Parkinson. Blaise Zabini had probably been the closest thing to a friendship he'd had.<p>

And there she was alone, a girl walking the streets of London at all hours of the clock, Merlin knew what she was doing. And after the first few days it had been quite apparent to Draco that she was indeed, alone. Potter was not hiding with her, a suspicion which sat with most of the wizarding world, and neither was the Weasel. The bristling anger that rushed through him could hardly be justified, let alone acknowledged.

It had always been Potter, Granger, and Weasley. And now it was just Granger. Maybe Potter was dead and buried in the dirt, with his parents, or maybe he was in a cell somewhere, bound in chains, rotting away in the darkness. He wouldn't dwell on that scarred face bastard, because if he did he knew he would begin to question things he'd rather ignore. So instead he thought of Weasley, and how he abandoned Granger, stupid and reckless Granger. Hadn't that red headed fuck held some sort of affections for the mudblood? Hadn't he cared? If he did then why wasn't he with her? Why wasn't he at her back when the snatchers approached her, protecting her? Why had Draco been the one to wordlessly stun them while Granger ran for her life, taking a train that would end up in some other god forsaken place, some place where Draco had been too late to follow, too preoccupied with doing a job that Weasley should have done. Saving her life.

Draco was left panting, his hands on his knees in the greyness of the railway tunnel. He didn't know if he'd ever see Granger again. So he glared at the tracks, thinking about what being a friend entailed, and what constituted betrayal, but mostly he wondered at what point along the line could hate morph into jealousy?

* * *

><p>Loyalty. He'd like to think that it was a trait he possessed, yet he couldn't recall anyone who had earned his loyalty, besides his father, who ensured it with force, or maybe blood, and somehow it frightened him, because in a world of rubble and ruins what was left for him if not for loyalty? He had nothing. Yesterday, he could have had Granger, the slow pace of his footsteps as he tracked her through London, because as much as he hated to think it, she had given him some sort of <em>purpose<em>. Even if his duties had been some demented form of babysitting, or of a lost dog that traced it's last memories of Hogwarts through the eyes of a once bushy haired mudblood. But Draco had never felt the need to _protect_ course through him, and it rattled him to his very bones. It had nothing to do with Granger, it was just primal instinct, and the last resort of a lost cause. It could not be about the past, about a home they'd once shared, and for _fuck's sake_ it had nothing to do with loyalty!

But maybe, just maybe, it was the least amount of good will that he would ever be able find inside himself, and that was why four days later, when he saw her walking towards him on a wintry hour of dusk, his head exploding with the need for her to _look_ at him, dammit, he'd stood still, waiting.

Her face was troubled, her dark brows knitted together with a crease of worry, and she'd been so _close_, that the fabric of their coats had been pushed together. But then she was gone, moving past him, and fuck that stupid mudblood for being so blind in a time of war, it infuriated him. Was he _nothing_?

He turned with her, watching her departing figure as she crossed the road and disappeared into a tiny store. She hadn't seen him. So he waited. He glared through the window as hard as he could, becoming a stone in the chilling breeze, urging her to fucking look up and see him because if she didn't then he really would leave for good and she would die and then maybe he'd be happy. He wanted to leave more than he wanted to believe he wouldn't.

But he didn't. Damn it all. He stood and he stared. And damn him because he'd never thought he'd see the day where he waited in the cold, in the fucking _snow, _for Hermione Granger.

And then she looked up, maybe at the startling noise of a passing bus or maybe because the heat of his eyes had finally dug holes into her soul, but everything seemed irrelevant now. She'd seen him, her eyes wide, and for some reason he swore that his heart had missed several beats.


	3. A Memory, Blood in the Bathroom, Capture

**Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas! My best wishes for the New Year! :)**

**Song for this chap: Exit Music (For a Film) by Radiohead**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 3: A Memory, blood in the Bathroom, and Capture<strong>

The last she had seen of him was the black of his robes and the fear of a man who was too lost to make choices. His snowy hair had shadowed his eyes, so Hermione would never be sure what his last image of Hogwarts had looked like, perhaps it was of pointless bloodshed, or a realisation after a lifetime of prejudice. Hermione only knew the eight years of bitterness between them, and it came up to swallow her while the screams of a battle ripped her apart.

It was strange how so many years of bickering and hate could amount to nothing. She would think about it in the months to come, about whether she should have said or done something more. Perhaps she would have screamed at him for the coward she saw him as, yelled her throat hoarse to tell him he should stay and fight the battle that everyone needed to be a part of. Because maybe it was her own image she watched fleeing from the battle, away from death, and from all the good she'd ever worked into her heart up until that moment. And somewhere a small part of her envied him for being able to be selfish, to want to feel safe, and most of all to be able to run away. Maybe she had wanted to tell him to wait, "Take me with you, take me to a place where I can hide from this war and forget who I am."

But she was Hermione Granger, and instead she had stood firm, her boots covered in rocks and debris, maybe even blood, and she willed every amount of hate and loathing into the back of his stupid blonde head. She'd like to think that maybe he would have turned around, glared hard at her, or even hexed her, and then laughed and said something offensive like he would have done in the beginning.

But he hadn't. Her fists clenched. The rain stung her cheeks, and Draco Malfoy disappeared from her life for good.

* * *

><p>Only it hadn't been for good. It was only temporary, like many other things in life, like everything after the war. The only constant was fear, and longing for freedom from a past life.<p>

* * *

><p>He was looking over the passing traffic, right through the pedestrians, and straight into the corner store's window. His stance was casual, bored, as if he were waiting for a train to come, and his slender frame was wrapped in the dark grey of a trench coat. The longer Hermione looked, the more she convinced herself that he was just someone else, and that the fogginess of the glass was distorting his features into the mask of a stranger.<p>

But then his steel eyes locked onto hers, and even from a distance she just _knew_. She dropped the apple, hearing the crunch of it's flesh hit the linoleum floor, and was vaguely aware of the shopkeeper talking her. She needed to hear it once, twice, three times, before she whipped her head to the side and saw a worried mouth shape words. "Mam? Are you-"

A part of her expected Malfoy to vanish before she looked back, just like Justin had, but he was still there, his arms crossed, and if she had held any previous hope that he hadn't recognised her, she was wrong. Her stomach sank, her hands shook, and as she stared at him she saw the reason behind Dumbledore's death, the fault of a young boy so ruined that his life had been controlled and contorted into a wrong so extreme that it could never earn forgiveness.

Her shock and hate escaped her as quickly as it had come, and a sudden gut wrenching fear settled over her instead. He had come for her. Had come to catch her, bind her, and take her to Voldemort. Maybe then she would be killed, and she'd get to keep her own desolated form of freedom in the land of the dead.

Perhaps she would have succumbed if it hadn't been Draco Malfoy. But ferocity rose to battle with her fear, and then she was moving. She shoved the shopkeeper to the side, ignoring his squeak of protest before his head hit the ground with a smack. Her wand was ready, gripped so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She sent a curse towards the window, aiming for a distraction rather than a hit.

The glass shattered, shards blowing out into the street, and people screamed and began to run, and without a second thought, Hermione did the same.

She'd always been a fast runner, as running had been more preferable than being on a broomstick, so she let her feet do what they had to, pounding so hard on the sidewalk that she thought she might snap her ankle and keel over at any moment. She pushed past confused pedestrians, hoping to god that no one had seen a strange girl take out a stick and smash a window, or worse, that there hadn't been any death eaters in the area. Although, she presumed that Draco Malfoy counted as one of those now. Maybe he had since their sixth year.

She didn't know if he was following her, and she didn't dare look back. All she knew was that she hadn't been hit by any curses yet, and for that she was thankful, it made her run even faster. She took random turns and darted down alleyways, trying to leave as much of a haphazard trail as possible.

She shot out at one end of an alley and nearly collided with the bonnet of a dark blue sedan. The driver had no hesitation in slamming their fist on the horn, the noise blearing through her skull and sending her forward again. She raced across the intersection and nearly stumbled into somebody. The man gave her a grimy look, eyeing her up and down before winking and telling her to "watch it, missy."

Hermione ignored him, her breath coming in jagged bursts through her parched throat. She ducked into a Chinese restaurant, asked for a table for one, and when the short old waitress gestured towards the window seat Hermione quickly declined, opting for one in the back corner.

"A glass of water, please." The woman smiled at her, and tottered off toward where Hermione assumed the kitchen would be. The restaurant was quiet, as night had just fallen, and evidently not many people had found themselves hungry yet. In fact, Hermione was the only one in there, apart from a young couple feeding each other noodles with their chopsticks. It would have been a comforting atmosphere if Hermione hadn't just been running for what could have been her life. The walls were a deep burgundy, and were decorated with elaborately framed watercolour's of China's landscapes. Hermione had always left a place inside of her to appreciate art, so she was able to clear her mind a little and try to catch her breath as she admired the brush strokes.

Breaking from her reverie, she quickly lunged for the menu, noticing that her hands were still shaking. She held it up in front of her and slouched a little in her chair so her face would be hidden from anyone walking past the window. She willed her eyes to remain focused by tracing the lines of Chinese characters printed on the front page, but despite her pleas with herself, her mind was miles away.

Muted yells sounded from the kitchen, but Hermione barely noticed. She was too lost in the desperate muddle of her thoughts, the faded image of Draco Malfoy in London. _Draco Malfoy. _She supposed it shouldn't seem that peculiar after thinking about it, where else would Voldemort send his cronies to search for blights such as herself in the Wizarding universe. It had probably just been a mistake that Malfoy had found her. There was no way he could have been ordered to capture her, otherwise he would have done _something_. He would face death if he had returned without someone who he'd been told to bring back. He would not have just stood there like a complete prat just to taunt her. The thought almost carried nostalgia with it, like how things used to be, and it made her think about whether she could ever be well and truly scared of someone like Draco Malfoy. Perhaps it was just the threat of capture and dark magic that had irked her rather than the person himself. _No_, it was hate, not fear, that made her run. Then why hadn't she ran up to him and shoved her fist in his face like she'd done years ago?

The waitress interrupted Hermione's thoughts as she placed a glass full of iced water on the table. The noise made Hermione jump, and in her surprise her elbow knocked a wine glass to the carpeted floor. Despite the soft padding, the glass' fragility was too much to bare, and it shattered upon impact.

"Oh- I'm _so_ sorry, here, let me-" Hermione crouched to the floor as the waitress began to apologise for her own spontaneity, the menu lying forgotten beside her, and reached for the broken fragments. They reminded her of her heart after Harry disappeared, sharp around the edges and in pieces.

Hermione only realised her thumb had been cut open when blood dripped onto the carpet. The waitress muttered something in Chinese, and rushed off after mispronouncing an english word which Hermione couldn't care enough to think of.

Her blood was red, _so_ red, and it beaded on her skin and dripped down her hand. She lost herself in the sight, it drew her in and took her backwards, back to a moment two years ago, in a boys bathroom off a dark corridor in Hogwarts.

_The tiles had been damp, cracked and wet, the water slipping through crevices in the stone. There were mirrors, reflecting her caution in worried images of herself. And there he was, his back to her, his white shirt crinkled over the distress set in his shoulders, and she knew he hadn't seen her yet. He was trembling, weeping as he bent over the sink. She couldn't distinguish the sound from the running taps, but when she realised she was a witness to his tears, something inside of her sank. Because it was just so unnatural. Someone as certain as Draco Malfoy did _not_ cry. It was like seeing her father cry. And something in her wanted to go up to him, to wrap her arms around him. But then she remembered who he was, and doing such a thing would most definitely be a warrant for death._

_Instead she watched him, lingering in the shadowed entryway. She watched the defeat in his neck, and the way his hands shook as he ran his fingers through the mussed tresses of his hair. His breath heaved, and for a moment she thought he might vomit, but instead he moved, a pale blur in the moonlit room, and sent his fist angrily into the mirror. He grunted, perhaps in pain, or surprise at his own impulsiveness, and then they'd both watched the blood trace streams around his knuckles. There had only been the tinkling of a leaking tap, and her own uneven heart beats. But then there was silence. Because he'd looked up and he'd seen her. _

_His eyes had not been angry, like the rage she'd expected from him. They merely contained a calm storm of ice that held her gaze with an unwavering clarity. Hermione thought her heart had stopped that day. Because it was a moment so surreal, so intimate, that she'd wanted to crumble. She would never know what had possessed her to follow Malfoy that evening, she simply had. Maybe she'd always been curious, or perhaps it could have just been pity. Either way, her nerves ended up overwhelming her, and she'd succumbed to defeat, breaking eye contact with his cracked reflection and running from the cold room and the unnameable moment she'd just shared with her enemy. _

_The echoes of her footsteps had followed her all the way back to Gryffindor tower, and it was only later when she was safely tucked up in bed that she had allowed herself to dwell on the way he had turned abruptly at her exit, his ashen eyes brimming with an unsaid plea. _

The memory left her as soon as it had come, leaving Hermione with a stinging hand and a sudden onslaught of vertigo. She rose to her feet, needing to steady her wobbling legs against the table behind her. The restaurant was still the same, as if she'd somehow expected it to be different, like she would wake up in her dormitory and it would be like the war had never happened.

She didn't wait for the kind old woman to return with what she'd left for, she only muttered a quick '_scourgify,' _ to clean up the broken glass, and hurried out into the street. She tried to ignore the judgemental gazes of the young couple who watched her from the window, as if she was some mad woman who needed to be locked up. She wrapped her arms around her torso, to keep the cold out and partly to stop the memories from flooding back to her, maybe she was even trying to make _them_ think she _was_ a mad woman. She felt restless, agitated, and she didn't care what they thought of her. Her mind was cluttered with the memory of grey eyes and pale features, twice they had haunted her, plagued her thoughts, and made her think more than she should. It angered her how Malfoy had always had such a powerful impact over her emotions, and once again she didn't know whether it was this that scared her more or the person himself.

She scanned her surroundings, taking caution with being followed, like she always did coming in and out of buildings. She had thought she'd been observant, careful, but somehow _he_ had escaped her notice. This only deepened her frown.

She decided to take the left road, guessing the general direction of where the hotel she was illegally staying in was, as she'd been in such a panic getting there that it would have been impossible to remember her route.

The sky was completely black now, with a dusting of far off stars scattered across it's depths. The cast iron street lamps illuminated the walkway with a warm yellow glow, and when Hermione looked up she saw tiny moths fluttering aimlessly beneath them in circles. A strange thought passed through her head, if only she could be one of those little bugs, broken wings and all, and live without responsibilities for a few minutes. Without fear and hunger.

Up ahead the last of the lamps began to flicker, and as Hermione's pace quickened it died out all together, only leaving her with the vague shapes of buildings and an assumed sidewalk to go by. She was nearing the end of the path soon, and then she'd have to take a detour through the construction site that blocked the end of the road, taking up an entire avenue. This didn't bother her, as she knew it'd be safe enough for her to take out her wand and cast a _Lumos_ so she wouldn't go blindly knocking down the scaffolding. She would have done so sooner if there hadn't been the chance of anyone nosily looking out their window and into the night.

It was pretty quiet for eight o'clock though, so Hermione thought she could risk it. She was just reaching into her jeans and drawing her wand out when a voice somewhere in front of her caused her to drop it. She let out a gasp, trying desperately to keep track of it's retreating shape in the dark.

"Look what we have here." The voice was rugged, mature, with a self entitled authority to it. Hermione couldn't place it, which only made her more nervous.

It was nighttime, she was alone, and she'd possibly lost her wand. Heavy footfalls made their way towards her, and there was a separate cracking of leaves behind her that told her she was trapped. Male chuckling drifted into her face with the sour odour of bad breath, and Hermione felt sick. The same voice spoke again, this time right in front of her.

"Well, well. Little 'miss impatient' ain't in such a rush now, is she? Hah!" sweaty hands violently pulled her wrists together before wrapping around her midriff, unashamedly pushing against her chest.

She felt hot breath down her spine, making her squirm with a discomfort that raged against her will to keep calm.

"Cat got yer tongue?" the first voice grumbled, enabling her to recognise it as the man who she'd bumped into outside of the restaurant earlier.

Hermione knew she couldn't say anything even if she'd wanted to. Because situations like this, only they'd been minor in comparison to now, had always made her stomach flip violently with a burning hatred. Her own breathing was rushed, fear lacing her windpipe, working desperately to form a scream. She tried, but only a wheeze escaped her, and the two men just laughed at her.

The one in front of her gripped her jaw hard, her teeth grinding against each other, and dragged her face upwards, and the stench of smoke and alcohol suffocated her. "Say something, love. It ain't any fair if we get all the fun."

The rumbling response of laughter belonging to the man restraining her chilled her bones. Her feet almost left the ground as she was forced to move. She was shoved to the side, the sudden patch of moonlight showing her a bearded jaw and a pierced ear. Then a fist struck her temple, and a shrill ringing banged around inside her skull. She would have smashed her face into the dirt if the same rough hands hadn't grabbed her hair and ripped her backwards, pulling her body further in towards the shadows of the construction site.

At the sound of a buckle undoing, she began to tremble, the motion only worsening the dreaded grip that landed on the back of her neck.

"Tie her hands." It was a drawl of anticipation.

Hermione felt herself sob. This couldn't be happening. After everything she had been through, this could _not_ happen.

She was brutally shoved to the pavement, her head smacking against a newly built brick wall. Cement scraped against her scalp. She whimpered.

Leather tightened around the skin of her wrists. Her head spun, and she felt her awareness begin to drift. Maybe if she squeezed her eyes closed she could pretend that this was just a dream, a terrifying nightmare. Vaguely, she felt hands grab the waistband of her jeans, and then there was nothing. Just a bleak pain in her head.

But then a third voice resonated through the scaffolding, a recognisable one, only it held an unfamiliar tone, urgency. If she hadn't hit her head she might have _known_, or understood the flashes of green that pounded against her eyelids.

The belt around her wrists loosened, and then disappeared. A warmth filled her, a tingling of revival, and she was free. She groggily lunged to her feet, trepidation twining through her, and she ran.

She would have kept running, she'd liked to think that she may have never stopped. But the voice gave her pause, and refocused her mind, because if there was anything that Draco Malfoy had taught her in the past it would have been how to hate, how to hate the sight of him, how to hate the sound of his voice, and mostly, how to fight.

"Wait." He repeated.


	4. Pull and Release

**Please leave your thoughts, I'd love to know what you think so far! **

**Song recs: No Harm by the The Boxer Rebellion and One more Day by Lydia **

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 4: Pull and Release<span>**

Hermione would never know why she'd stopped, why she hadn't just kept going, away from a darkness that would bring her to her knees, show her the boundaries of death. Maybe it was because she was always the sort of girl who's heart had ached for the misunderstood villains in television dramas, for broken people who begged for her curiosity. Or maybe it was because she had a best friend who was a hero, who tried to save everybody, and she had been fading in the glow of Harry's footsteps, and now it was her chance to finally mend _something_.

She didn't know what that something was, and she was aware that she might never find out, but she was a Gryffindor, she was meant to be _brave_, and Hermione Granger would never back down. So she stopped. Her wrists were sore, her thumb still stung, and for a moment she thought she might tell him to piss off, just like she would have done all those years ago. But she didn't, she would hold this much decency after what had almost just happened to her, which for her, would have been worse than death.

She could barely hear the part of her mind that urged her to run, because he was a Death Eater, and she meant nothing to someone like him, but then there was her common sense, her rational side, that reminded her that she had just been saved by this so called 'Death Eater.' Saved, by Draco Malfoy. Her breathing came in rapid bursts, a dull pain in her head resurfacing from whatever healing spell he had used on her, but mostly there was silence.

So she turned, and there he was, several metres behind her, his wand light throwing strange shadows across his pale face. She saw it, that _look_. The look of a boy with a destiny that was drowning him, grey eyes full of an unspoken cry, and dare she think for one second that they were back in the bathroom in a school they both called home.

He schooled his features, causing her to think that maybe she'd just imagined it, that _pleading _gaze. She eyed him with fright, remembering she didn't have her wand, and that she was the prey cornered by the beast.

He was a lot taller than she remembered, and the darkness between them seemed to stretch on forever. Her eyes searched his face, for anything, any hint of reason as to why he was there. But all she saw were the traces of black beneath his stern eyes, the firm line of his lips, and the face of Draco Malfoy as he'd abandoned a dying world, their _home_.

"Y-you-" She snapped her mouth shut as soon as she'd realised she'd spoken. She had promised herself that she would _not_ be the one to break first.

His jaw twitched, a vein in his neck visible and pulsing, letting her know that she hadn't been the only one to hold such a stupid and childish stubbornness. Then he was moving forward, kicking dirt up, and she was retreating with each of his movements, panic rising once again.

"D-don't you dare move. Don't you dare touch me! I'll kill you! You- you vile, evil coward! You traitor! I'll kill you I swear it I will-" But she was taking steps back with every word she breathed, tears burning her vision and threatening to fall.

She didn't miss the anger that abruptly stole his eyes, or the way his whole body tensed, and then he was rushing at her. She tried desperately to gather her feet and run, but her jeans caught under her boots and then she was falling.

Her palms scraped sharply into the ground, rocks digging into her flesh, and before she had a chance to turn, he was behind her, towering over her, his wand jabbing painfully into her spine.

"Shut up. Just don't say anything." His voice was deadly quiet, something she'd never heard in him before, and it scared her. She gulped, her throat dry and hoarse, and then the tears fell. This was the end then, wasn't it? Of course the only reason he would have killed her attackers was so that he could grab her and kill her himself, or worse, take her to Voldemort.

"Hurry up then." It was a whisper, a voice so tired that at first she didn't recognise it as her own. It made her bolder though, her own words. "Do it."

He didn't say anything, maybe he hadn't heard her. But then there was the rustling of his coat and the withdrawal of his arm, and he staggered away from her, like he'd been burned.

"Get up." His voice sounded just as tired as she felt, and for a second her chest clenched, reeling at the possibilities of his meaning.

Her tears stopped, and she settled on defiance. "No. If you want to kill me, do it now."

"_What?_"

Despite her predicament, her nose rose in the air, haughtily almost, ringing of past memories. "I said—"

"I'm not fucking deaf. I heard what you said." For some reason he sounded offended.

Confusion overwhelmed the fear she'd felt. "Then why-?" Slowly she crawled to her knees, and turned her head to see him standing a few feet away, his stance controlled but his wand no longer pointing at her. She could see he was thinking about something, his guard was down.

She saw her chance, so she took it, not waiting for him to respond, she lunged, launching herself to her feet and straight towards his arm.

She'd like to think that she hadn't seemed as predictable as she'd felt, but she had her doubts when he easily swung his other arm up to knock her backwards. The hit to her stomach knocked the air out of her, and the gasp she was struggling with couldn't rise, so she ended up making a strange choking noise instead.

Malfoy grunted, as if _he_ was the one in pain, but then his wand was in her chest, halting any thoughts before she had the chance to think them. Her breath caught as he lowered his chin to glare directly at her. "You're pathetic." It was bored, a drawl, and it had never angered her more.

"And you're a bastard who still can't play fair," She shot back, refusing to break eye contact.

His wand dug harder into her ribs, and she couldn't suppress a wince. Her eyes didn't waver, she just continued to glare up at him, even when his other arm crept up to fist into the thick fabric of her coat, she didn't falter. "What are you doing, Granger?" It was low, a murmur almost, but it held intensity.

She laughed. It wasn't funny. _Nothing_ about this situation was funny at all. But the laughter swarmed up from her insides, sarcastic and bitter. "Are you _serious?" _She threw her arms up, gesturing wildly into the darkness, behind them where two dead bodies lay unmoving, up towards the sky as if it held all the answers, yet she couldn't say anything more. She hiccuped, words coiling into angry knots in her throat, and _God_ she would not cry again.

She struggled in his grasp, and to her surprise his hand became slack, dropping away from her chest along with the other that still held his wand. As suddenly as they'd left, they were back, because shouts sounded from around the block, jets of red cutting through the night towards them. Hermione had made a desperate break for it, pushing away from him, but he was faster, grabbing her shoulders and hurtling her backwards. His arms surrounded her torso as she tried to kick back at his shins, sinking her teeth into his forearm, but it was futile, he was _too _strong, and this must be it, this must be the end.

But then he was pulling her into the shadows behind them, all the while restraining her securely, until her face almost smacked into the hardness of what she assumed to be a wall. The front of his body was pressed harshly into her back, caging her in, causing any of her previous movements to become absolutely still.

The voices were suddenly right in front of them, on the other side of the brickwork, and Hermione thought she might suffocate, any gasp of air she tried to suck in was just too _loud. _But then she heard the words 'killing curse' and 'Potter' and any intentions of breathing left her completely. _Death Eaters_. And one of them was right behind her, forcing her to be still, pressed against her in ways that would have been intimate if it had been anyone other than Draco Malfoy.

She needed to do something. Anything. An attempt of slamming her head back into his face had passed through her mind, but then warm breath teased her hair, and his voice was at her ear. "I'm not one of them— Not anymore."

It was a whisper, barely audible, but the voices of the Death Eaters were fading and she heard him, and it was enough.

"_Breathe _Granger."

They were gone. She slumped, every bone in her body begging her to be still, to not have to run anymore. She breathed. But it was short lived, because whatever spells Malfoy had used on her injuries were now rapidly diminishing, and white dots began to speck her vision, a numbness spreading from her temples, tugging her away.

When she finally succumbed to the pull she couldn't tell if the blackness was simply the nights calling, or an abyss within her own unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Draco disinterestedly observed as the girl in his arms ungracefully crumpled into a heap on the ground. Maybe she really had suffocated due to brick inhalation, and when they picked her apart for cause of death they'd find little shards of cement in her lungs, he mused. In reality though, she probably just fainted, and it took him several heartbeats to remember the state he'd found her in, and what had come so close to happening.<p>

Bile burned his insides as he bent down to shake her. "_Granger_!" Shit. No response. He had never felt so helpless before, and dare he think it, distraught. The thought of the mudblood -of Granger- dying right in front of him was suddenly a very real possibility, and for some reason it made him feel sick.

It was too dark to do anything, to take a look at her wounds and try and heal them, they'd need to move, and fast, for all he knew she could be bleeding out at his feet, her blood black in the moonlight.

How could she be so fucking stupid? To go running off in the dark? He tried to ignore the fact that her distressed state had most likely been his fault. He ground his teeth hard, tasting blood as they sliced the inside of his cheek.

Maybe he was the stupid one though, maybe that's why he lifted her into his arms and apparated without a moments hesitation, the loud sound of their disappearance cracking through the air.

* * *

><p>Narcissa Malfoy had always been a kind woman, despite the way her nose would shrivel up as if she could smell dung whenever she was in the presence of someone she deemed beneath her. The Black family had raised her to be proud, conceited, but beneath that she was as kind to those she loved as much as her sister had been deranged. She would not follow Bellatrix, and in the end she hadn't followed Lucius either. Because to her, her son would always be the most important thing in her life. And to Draco, his mother would be the only person he felt himself capable of loving. Maybe compassion was a trait they both shared, somewhere buried below deceitful eyes and a man too powerful to be denied.<p>

One day Draco would come to realise that his father had imposed on his mother's life just as much as he had on his own. But for some disturbing reason the woman still loved him. She confided in her son, about many things, things that Lucius had never been privy to, and Draco listened. He knew that his mother held forgiveness, something Lucius would degrade her for having, and he knew that because of this she had never been able to forget her sister Andromeda.

Narcissa had bought a small cottage hidden away in a nook of the Clee Hills in Shropshire. It was a place where Lucius would never find them, a thought which had confused a young Draco as his mother had once told him; "My dear son, if something were ever to happen to me, you must go to this place in the countryside. It his hidden well and you will be safe." It had only been years later when he had found out from his sobbing mother, alcohol thick on her breath, that she had gotten the place for her sister, a wedding gift to her and the mudblood she'd betrayed her family for. Andromeda had never accepted it. It was then when he'd seen it, the broken strings that made up his mother, strings of remorse and forgiveness, strings which he'd sworn to cut down should they ever surround his own heart.

But now he clutched Hermione Granger in his arms, his boots slicked with mud and his eyes burning with their fight against the rain, and he trudged steadily towards the awaiting cottage. Smoke billowed through the chimney, and the lights beyond the windows beckoned him with warm hues of orange.

As he neared the little blue door his body seemed to cave a bit, the unconscious girl in his arms slipping an inch. They were both drenched, their coats hung heavily on their bodies like unwanted burdens, and for a moment he had the fleeting desire to dump her on the doorstep and get as far away as possible. But then what? He'd be back to square one, and she would probably race back to whatever fucking death wish she'd been previously asking for. And damn everything if all his actions leading up to tonight would end up amounting to nothing but a waste of time.

So he ploughed on, tightening his grip on the girl he'd been taught to hate, and banged his knuckles forcefully against the wood of the door. He waited, the only sound his uneven breathing and the untiring thrum of rain against flesh, dirt, and stone.

* * *

><p>Hermione dreamt of warm arms, wet skin, and then pain. She was back in Malfoy Manor, her spine wrenched in contortion as Bellatrix screamed over her and made her bleed. Her own screams came out as faint whispers, puffs of air that choked her and begged for her to be louder, to be <em>heard. <em>But dreams manipulate everything into the unreal, mould lies and put words in your mouth, and right now they were taking Hermione's screams. Instead she saw the witch above her kill her friends, and their blood drowned her. Her voice found her, but it was too late, because thick and hot redness gagged her, she couldn't breathe. She was dying, and no one would hear her scream.

Only someone did though, because there was blond hair, and the face that had tormented her for seven years. But now his eyes were soft, focused, and they drilled into her until she couldn't bare to look anymore.

* * *

><p>When Hermione woke it was to the harsh rays of light that shone red against her eyelids, and to the shrill ringing of her own screams. She bolted up in the bed, regretting it immediately at the pain that crept up her spine and settled in her head. Wait, what? A <em>bed? <em>Her hands swept wildly around her, desperately searching for her wand. She couldn't find it though, all she could feel were soft cotton sheets and a heavy feathered duvet.

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly with her new found panic at her unfamiliar surroundings. Her eyes fell on the carved posts of the bed frame, high and incredibly detailed, and then to the rest of the room. It was quite large, bigger than anything she was used to, but still cosy, with a wardrobe crafted out of the same dark mahogany as the bed, in the corner, and a cushioned wicker chair which sat beside the bedside table.

It was definitely different to grey bricks and chains, tastes she would have expected from the Death Eaters. _Death Eaters. _They'd been _so_ close. And here she was, alive, and she didn't know what to think of it. Her hands flew to her body, relief flooding through her when she found she still had every limb intact, but confusion and fear at the fluffy gown she was wrapped in, and the apparent fact that she wasn't wearing _anything_ beneath it. She shoved back the covers, urging the lead like feeling in her legs to dissipate as she struggled to her feet, but as soon as her bare toes touched the hardness of the floorboards the bedroom door was brutally flung open. And there he was, the man who had killed for her, possibly saved her, and somehow she couldn't summon up a single shred of kindness to feel thankful. He'd bloody well shoved her into a brick wall, probably gave her a concussion too.

She instinctively pulled the gown tighter around herself, her arms wrapping around her body in a need for defence, she was after all, wandless, and about to face a no doubt unpleasant occurrence with Draco Malfoy. Her eyes flicked to his face, tension was radiating off him in waves, and she only had a second to notice the cowering elf behind him before he was speaking.

"Awake, I see."

"Really. And here I thought I was sleep walking. Where am I, Malfoy?" His eyes narrowed at her sarcastic retort.

"That's not important."

Anger flashed through her. "Not important? I suppose the fact that I don't have my wand is also unimportant? Or how I'm in the house of a Death Eater, a Death Eater who apparently likes flowery duvets and yellow wallpaper?" she gestured toward the bed, forgetting about keeping the robe in place and blushing madly when it slipped, "And what have you done with my clothes?"

"Go get the mudblood's clothes," He muttered down at the creature at his feet, not even sparing it a glance, which only angered Hermione further, "Maybe then she'll show a little _gratitude_."

The elf nodded with a force strong enough to snap it's neck, bowing towards the back of Malfoy's knees before throwing a hurried one in Hermione's direction, and then scurried off, leaving the two alone in the room.

"_Gratitude_?" She spat, "You knock me out, kidnap me, and you expect me to show _gratitude_? You really are stupid Mal—"

"I saved your fucking life, Granger! _Twice_! And here you are acting like some self-righteous and ungrateful bitch—" His voice was rising with each word, shock slapping her in the face.

"_Twice?_"

He bristled, clearly taken aback. His grey eyes iced over, eyeing her with contempt and something foreign, unrecognisable. She simply stood there, her arms crossed tightly, waiting for him to continue. She tried not to let the confusion show on her face, but probably failed.

"You clearly were incapable of handling the situation, even against muggles, your lacking abilities astound me, not to mention how fucking stupid you were to go running off at night—"

"Don't patronise me, Malfoy. You know what I mean. You said you saved me two times, when was—"

"Who gives a shit?" He bit out, and it was the first time since he'd barged in that she noticed how weary he looked, fatigue set in every plane of his face, and it made her think twice about whatever nasty response she had waiting on her tongue.

"I'm not going to thank you. You owe me a very long explanation." Her head felt airy, and suddenly all she wanted to do was go back to bed, no matter how messed up of a situation she found herself in. The elf chose that moment to return with a neatly folded pile of her clothes, which it placed gently on the foot of the bed, before retreating once more.

Malfoy turned to follow, throwing a dejected sigh over his shoulder and running an agitated hand through his hair. "Whatever."

She scoffed at his childish defeat, but jumped as he slammed the door behind him, leaving her to bite her nails and fret about what was going to happen next. Yet for a reason she couldn't identify, the fear which had been so fresh in her chest had been short lived, and was now replaced with clouded mysteries.

* * *

><p>After throwing on her jeans and sweater, making a mental note to thank the elf for ironing her clothes, she'd been completely enraged to find the door to the room locked. She'd tried banging on it, her fists red and sore, heaving her entire weight against the wood, but it was to no avail. It was also quite apparent that a silencing charm had been placed on it, otherwise Malfoy would have come up and strangled her for all the noise she'd been causing, not to mention all the foul names she'd yelled at him from behind the door.<p>

She'd tried the window, but it was barred shut, enforced with warding spells that sent fiery pain up her arm when she tried to open it. _Dammit,_ if only she had her wand. But she didn't. She was trapped, useless, so she slumped against the door, her head falling onto her raised knees. She wanted to scream some more, tear her hair out, but her throat was raw, so she simply sat and thought of lost possibilities. Harry seemed further away than ever now, and it was all Malfoy's fault.


	5. Release and Pull

**Disclaimer: I own nothing~**

**Song recs: A Stranger by A Perfect Circle and Keaton Henson's Kronos**

**Hope you like this chapter! **

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 5: Release and Pull<strong>

Andromeda's cottage was tiny compared to the Manor, but Draco knew that the woman would have been offended had his mother pick out something even close to the Manor's grandeur. Actually, she'd been affronted anyway, turning her back on his mother and her extended arm. He never understood why Narcissa didn't sell the place, or maybe she couldn't seeing as she'd probably bought it in her sister's name, so the little stone house was doomed to live a life of abandonment.

It had been a complete surprise to see any sign of life emitting from the place when he'd apparated there last night. He'd stood at the the skirts of the forest trees, wondering once again just what the hell he was doing, but in the end his logical side had lost, and he'd moved from the foliage to head up the winding path which would lead to possibly one of the worst decisions he'd ever make in his life.

Had it been though? Had it been that terrible? It was when he saw his old classmate squirm in pain and mutter incoherent ramblings, her face twisted with discomfort. It hadn't taken long to heal her, as Draco was rather skilled at healing magic, and her injuries hadn't been too severe upon closer inspection. The worst pain was going on inside of her, in her dreams, he knew this because they haunted him too. Images of the war. Of lives needlessly taken. And he couldn't do a thing about it, except silently curse her and shake her in hopes of waking her.

And when she finally woke it was to screams and an empty bedroom. Their argument had pissed him off. Yes, he too would be angry if he were in her position, supposedly abducted by the opposition and then being told otherwise, there was bound to be confusion. But for some reason he had been reluctant to elaborate after he realised she really hadn't been thankful at all, and annoyingly enough it wounded his pride. How dare she be such a snobby bitch and not stop to think how much he had put himself on the line for her?

So he'd locked her in. He warded the room with silencing and repelling spells should she think to escape. He would _not _have her running off and getting herself blown up by a Death Eater after all he had done the past week. He couldn't help but smirk as he retreated from the bedroom door, heading down the narrow staircase and into the kitchen.

The house-elf was cooking something, and he averted his nose in disgust. He didn't understand why his mother had bothered to employ an elf for the sake of his ungrateful aunt, let alone why the creature was still here after so many years. He had never stayed so long in such a confined space, even though it had only been one night, and worse, he had never been forced to spend so much time with a pathetic house elf, especially a singing one.

Thankfully, as soon as he stepped into the kitchen it stopped whatever noise it had been making, a noise that sounded suspiciously like a bloody Christmas song. Some shit about bells, holly, and a fat man in a red suit. He didn't have time to deal with musical elves, he needed to return to London, and do something that should have been dealt with last night. But he'd been stupid, careless, and he hadn't taken care of the two bodies they had left behind. He suppressed a shudder, he would _not_ think about that now, about what would have happened to Granger if he hadn't arrived when he did. It infuriated him how she had been so weak and defenceless, how she'd allowed herself to be cornered by two muggles. She hadn't stood a chance.

He growled, shoving a hand through his hair, he needed to push every thought of that fucking mudblood out of his head. He _hated_ her. He hated how he'd followed her. He hated how she made him question things, and how for some reason he felt _responsible_. He hated how she'd looked last night, unconscious, pained, but most of all he hated how this fucking mattered at all.

"Don't let her leave." He grumbled to the creature, before vanishing with a faint snap.

* * *

><p>Hermione was pacing when there was a delicate knock at the door. Her head shot up, noting that Malfoy could never possess such gentleness even if he tried, and immediately relaxed when it creaked open and the wide eyes of the elf stared up at her.<p>

"E-Excuse Plushy, Miss. Master told Plushy to bring this up," It was a whimper, and it tore at Hermione's heart that the poor little thing expected abuse from her.

She walked over to it, her stomaching betraying her with a grumble when she caught sight of the tray and the steaming pot upon it. Bending down, she offered the creature a smile. "Thank you, Plushy, that's very kind."

Plushy's eyes widened, shocked at the girl's kindness, before eagerly handing over the tray.

"Did you cook this, Plushy?" It was quite apparent that she did, as the prospect of Malfoy cooking anything, let alone something for her, seemed near impossible.

The she-elf nodded timidly, toeing the floorboards in a shy manner.

"It smells lovely. Thank you."

Plushy hesitated, but then beamed at her. "You is very kind, Miss!"

Hermione couldn't help the grin that tugged at her lips, but then she remembered what was happening, and what she should be asking. "Plushy, where am I?"

The elf's previous joy quickly disappeared, leaving fear in it's place. "M-Master said Plushy mustn't—"

"It's alright." Hermione sighed, understanding the magical bonds the creature would be under, not allowing it to go against it's master's wishes.

"Miss must eat. Plushy will be back later." And with that the elf retreated, locking the door behind her, and Hermione was once again alone.

* * *

><p>Draco swore violently as he pushed his entire weight against the door, loosing his footing when it finally gave way and swung open. Granger was sprawled across the floor in a heap, as if she'd just been sitting firmly against the door like a stubborn cow, refusing to let him in. Upon seeing him she shot to her feet.<p>

"What the fuck's your problem?" He snapped.

Her eyes were burning cinder, stabbing daggers into his face. He grimaced when he saw her arms were crossed, her stance rigid as if she were about to give him the lecture of his life. Her lips were pursed, and she didn't say anything, and this only angered him further. So he did the only thing he knew how, he threw up his defence, and resorted to hate. "How dare you look at me like that. Filthy little mudblood."

And then she was against him. It took him several seconds to realise she'd launched herself at him. Her fists were everywhere, haphazard, yet she was stronger than he would have given her credit for. Her nails tore at his exposed neck, her knuckles pounding against anything she could reach, his jaw, his chest. And he couldn't do anything but stand there. Because she was wild, vicious, and she had been pent up with so many years of torment that he could do nothing but stare, to stand and take it. Maybe he realised she needed this. Or maybe it was all just bullshit, and she was just a crazy bitch, because as her fist smacked into his nose and he heard a brutal _crack, _he'd had enough.

His fingers came up to her wrists, like ice restraining fire, but she wouldn't stop, she just whined as her control escaped her, and sobs wracked through her body. She shoved her body against him, unrelenting as they both smacked into the wardrobe, until his back banged against the wall and then they were both slipping.

He didn't let go of her wrists. He just stared at her, void of expression, because some part of him could _empathise_, and he would _not_ hit her. Her red-rimmed eyes were squeezed shut, and now she was freely crying, still tugging desperately at her arms, but the fight had left her. They sat there, together, his back against the wall as she straddled his legs, slumped forward while her hair veiled her eyes.

"I h-hate you. _So_ much." She hiccupped, and he hadn't expected her to say anything, so he was quite surprised.

"I know." He murmured, and for a moment she looked up at him, her brown eyes hazy and confused, but then she just continued to cry. Something must have possessed him then, because he wound one of his hands through the ends her hair, pulling, weaving, and maybe something overcame her too, because she didn't hit him or curse him, she simply let him.

After a while, she sniffled, her sobs coming to an end, and she whispered into the now dark room, "You were supposed to say; I hate you too." It rolled off her tongue, as if she savoured it, and it hung heavily in the stagnant air around them.

Draco shrugged, not knowing how to respond to that. "Things change, Granger." Her eyes met his in the darkness, brown against grey, and for a second he became uncomfortable at what she might say next, so he spoke some more. "You're so bloody stupid, that hasn't changed."

And just like that her fight had been rekindled, and she jumped to her feet, dusting off her clothes as if she was disgusted, dirty, from being close to him. As if _he _were the inferior one. He rose with her, not liking the height difference, until he towered over her.

She was about to yell, and damn it if he had to tolerate anymore of her shouts or physical tantrums he would hex her, so he got there first, his verbal rage drowning out anything she could have said.

"You heard me! Fucking stupid! You were so hell bent on doing something sodding brave like that bloody Potter that you nearly go and get yourself killed! Death Eaters and Snatchers, Granger! They're everywhere. All over fucking England and if you don't think they're looking for you then you're damn wrong. Nowhere's safe. Scar head's not going to come and save you, he's dead. And it's time you just get over it because life is shit for everyone, okay?" He was panting, his teeth bared. But he recoiled, because the look she was giving him was one of hurt.

"You're such a coward, Malfoy," she exhaled shakily, "You know, I liked to think to myself that you'd just been mislead, a poor boy following in his father's footsteps. Sometimes I thought that you were different, somehow. But I was wrong. You are just like your father. A coward."

He saw her stiffen, saw the way she clung to herself, because she'd crossed a line that they both knew no body crossed with him. But there it was. And he waited for the fury to come, he waited in fear that he actually _might_ hit her. But he didn't.

"I know."

And it was all he said for some time. His own surprise was mirrored on her wary features, and the way she studied him made him feel like a badly made potion, dangerous and ready to erupt. But the explosion never came, and slowly shock settled over her face.

"You weren't lying— you— you really aren't one of them."

He scowled at her, words already formed on his lips, "I—"

"Stop it. Don't say it again. Or I-I'll—"

He was amused, there she stood, defiant, her hair everywhere, wandless, and still she acted like a bloody Gryffindor. "You'll what? Hex me?"

"Where's my wand, Malfoy?" She seethed.

He dismissed her question with a grunt, glad that the tables had turned and he could revel in her discomfort.

"Answer me you bastard—"

"You don't need it."

"_What?_ Are you mental?"

"No. I mean what I said. You don't need it. You're staying here." And he was just as startled by his own words as she was.

Her mouth snapped shut, opened, closed. Her lips trembled, and the way his eyes stuck to them made them both uneasy. "You can't—"

He scoffed. "Actually, Granger, you'll find I can. Because, as we've established, I am the one with a wand, not you."

"I don't understand—"

"God forbid there be something that miss know-it-all Granger doesn't understand. Let me spell it out for you. Your kind does not belong out there. You never did, and you never will. If you leave, you die."

"And why the hell does that matter to you?"

He paused, angry at his loss of words. "It doesn't—"

She laughed at him, _she_ laughed at _him. "_I can take care of myself, Mal—"

"Well incase you missed the fucking memo Granger, your side lost. You're done. Get it through your thick—"

"Don't!" She hissed, her temper bordering on that precipice again, that glorious spark of flames and life. It coiled around him, scolding him. He stepped closer.

"The war is over!"

"No—"

"Finished, Granger—"

"Shut—"

"You're precious Potter's dead!"

"No!" She screamed, "you're wrong!" Tears slipped over her cheek bones. She clutched her arms together, like she'd fall apart if she didn't. She was caving, defeated, and each word he spoke was a barb to her heart. But he couldn't stop.

"He's gone—"

"No- He's alive." She was only trying to convince herself.

"Dead—"

"Stop it Ron—" She choked on her gasp, her eyes widening with her mistake.

Draco didn't take his eyes off her, because there it was, that tiny sliver of something broken which she'd lost, something she'd been looking for since the end. His heated gaze didn't soften, he only glared harder, and for some reason he couldn't not _know_. "Did he leave you, Granger?"

Her cheeks were stained pink, her eyes red and unseeing, and she crumpled to the floor. Her fists were clenching, reaching for something unrecognisable, something hidden only in memories. Draco stood, his body taut, contrasting to the heaviness in his chest. Someone this brave, this dedicated, could not lose themselves like this. And it was his fault. He'd driven her there, to the point of no return. He tried to squash down anything resembling remorse.

"Did the Weasel abandon you?" Familiarity, mocking, the bite in his tone. It was all he _knew_.

Her uneven sobs paused, and her voice was venom, sliding over the wrath of her tongue. "_Fuck off,_ Malfoy."

She surprised him, maybe because he would never have thought the pure hearted Gryffindor had it in her. But hate was powerful, and this, they both knew. So he left. He didn't slam the door, like he thought he would, because he couldn't, and maybe he wouldn't even if he'd wanted to.

* * *

><p>Hermione had never felt so trapped. So caught. So alone. She would wait in anticipation, her palms sweating through the long hours, until <em>he<em> would come through that door. He never brought her food, it was always Plushy, and Hermione found herself enjoying the little elf's company. But her visits were always too short, and Hermione would be left to her thoughts and the biting of her nails. Draco would bring arguments and hate, and one time after a particularly draining spat she had actually hurled her empty casserole dish at his retreating head. He'd ducked, the bastard, and had then aimed a hex at her which she'd only narrowly avoided.

She would scream at the closed door for ages and beat her fists on the wood until they bled, but sometimes it would be hours, even days, until Draco would come, and she hated that she awaited his presence, because otherwise she'd go insane.

"When are you going to stop being such a bitch, Granger?" It was morning, and he was about to go somewhere. She could tell because he was wearing his overcoat, and it made her feel hot in the stuffy room. She despised it when he disappeared, because he would never tell her where he went, and Plushy never stayed long enough to be thought of as actual company.

Hermione ignored him, her back to him as she perched on the narrow window seat. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, and her eyes fixed on the green scenery which she could see through the glass. A greenness that stretched on for what seemed like miles. An internal greenness.

She had thought constantly about what it could tell her about her location, but it could mean anything. England wasn't the only place in the world which had sodding green grass and mountains.

"Granger." He growled. She'd learnt that he didn't like to be ignored, which was why she took to doing it so much.

"Oh, me? Don't mind me. I'll feel much better after the room's been cleared of the foul, offensive and ill-tempered cockroach that tends to stand around like an obnoxious gargoyle," He grunted, and she didn't need to look at him to see that his frown had deepened. "Actually, if I had my wand, I'd be able to take care of—"

"As soon as you get it into your ugly head that you're not going anywhere, the better. You don't need a wand."

She turned, getting to her feet. "You have no right—"

"I have every right! Because I—"

He stopped, she glared. "You, what? What do you do Malfoy? Where do you go? What is it you do other than pretend that I'm some sort of _pet_ that you can just keep locked up—"

His nostrils flared, his fists clenched, like he was bracing himself for the anger they both expected, the anger that would never come. He took slow steps towards her until she was forced back into the window seat, their breath colliding.

"You wouldn't understand. You never will."

"Really? Try me, Malfoy."

He clenched his jaw, searching her face. Her eyes didn't waver, she just took in every harsh plane, every soft dip and curve of his face, the intensity of his smoky eyes. He didn't say anything more, he just left. And this time he slammed the door.

* * *

><p>She dreamt of dark stones, muddy water, and blood. Blood everywhere. Harry's blood, his hand in hers. He was coughing out her name, but she couldn't say anything. Because she was drowning, aways drowning. There was someone else there. Someone tall with a whip of light hair, but he was walking away from them, letting them die. She stretched out her hand, reaching for him, but his figure was so faint. She croaked out his name, her voice ripping around words barely whispered. And then she was screaming, because she and Harry were going to die, and there he was walking away from them, away from life. He was going to let them die. They would fade away in a puddle of their own blood, alone, yet together. She screamed at the man to turn around, to come back, but he didn't.<p>

Hands were shaking her, violently, her head thrashing against the softness of a pillow. Her eyelids opened, and her breath halted, because she was alive. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead as she looked up to the face hovering above her in the moonlit room.

Blond hair, a creased brow, and stern eyes. Malfoy. For a second she thought he might kill her, but then he was moving, shoving her over and manoeuvring into the bed beside her. She felt her crazed heart beat become even more erratic, fear and confusion mingling into the remnants of her dream. "What are you do—"

"Shut up."

He was warm and she hadn't even known she'd been cold until her body began to shake. He didn't wrap his arms around her, because that would be something they both wouldn't be able to handle, and it was unnecessary. He'd come to her in the darkness, and maybe that was enough. "Malf—"

He cut off her whimper, his voice eerily quiet. "You were screaming my name, Granger." He adjusted his weight, his chest coming to rest against her back. This combined with the innuendo of his previous statement caused heat to rise to her cheeks, and she was grateful for the darkness, and that she was facing away from him.

She felt a strange vibration ring through her back, a chuckle at her unresponsiveness. "Who would have thought do-gooder- Granger would have such impure thoughts."

Her vocal cords wouldn't allow her to scoff, so maybe she had been screaming. "It isn't my fault you say such inappropriate things."

He snorted. "Sleep."

So she did. Because she was warm, tired, and maybe even comfortable. Her dreams didn't return.

* * *

><p>In the morning it'd been like he was never there, like they could pretend that nothing had happened, the only difference was that he had left her door unlocked. Hermione checked it every morning, and that day was like any other, so when her hand enclosed the brass handle and it twisted freely in her palm, she was shocked. Someone like Malfoy would never make such a slip up, so for whatever reason he had left it purposefully that way, and it made her giddy. For the first time in two weeks, Hermione left the room.<p>

She stepped out cautiously, her bare feet making next to no sound, and found herself on a small landing. Several narrow steps lead her down to the second floor, dark polished wood spread out beneath her. The ceiling was high, a small skylight sat too high for her to peek out of, and all the other doors framing the walls were locked.

She trailed her anxious fingers along the banisters which angled downwards to trace a staircase. There was what sounded like the cluttering of pots and pans downstairs, and the savoury smell of food wafted gracefully up to her hungry stomach, so without hesitance she made her way down the stairs, momentarily noting that the second one creaked.

A spacious yet homey kitchen greeted her, terracotta tiles spread out beneath a gloriously carved oak table, and a noble grandfather clock sat ticking in a corner. Hermione briefly thought it was unusual for a magical home to have the kitchen and dining area within the same room, but then Plushy moved from behind the table, her shortness hiding her, with a steaming bowl of porridge in her gloved hands.

The elf set the food down at the head of the table, and then gave a startled squeak when she noticed Hermione standing at the foot of the stairs. "Good morning, Miss. Plushy has breakfast ready."

Hermione's stomach rumbled, and her lips formed around a 'thank you' that was never spoken, because at that moment she felt a breeze on her skin. She turned, and there it was, an open window. She hadn't seen it upon entry because it had been behind where the stairs ended, but now it teased her with dainty blows of wind, the smell of trees and rain. And she _yearned._

There was no doubt Plushy would stop her, but she _had_ to try. Because if there was one thing she'd learnt on the run it was to never pass up opportunities, and here one was, smacking her in the face and urging her on. Her body bled anticipation, and her brain kicked into gear. She moved to the table, willing her nerves to calm and her hands to not shake, and as soon as the elf turned away from her, Hermione slid the bowl to the edge of the table, pushing it further until it shattered against the tiles. The elf shrieked, spinning around, and Hermione did her best to imitate the creature with her own wavering gasp of surprise.

"Don't move, Miss, Plushy will fix this. Plushy is good at fixing—"

But Hermione would never know what the elf was good at fixing, because she had already reached for the heavy silver candlestick which had adorned the table, and her lip trembled as she rose it above her shoulder only to bring it down harshly on the back of Plushy's head. The small body fell limp against the floor, and Hermione released a sob as the guilt swam over her, and she prayed to god that the creature was only unconscious and nothing more.

There was no time to worry about that though, because in a few minutes she could be _free_. She raced to the window, unsure of what to do next, but knowing she didn't have time to think. Malfoy could find her any second, hell he could be coming down the stairs at that moment, and the blood would be too loud in her ears for her to notice.

The moment her hands touched the wood of the window sill, a searing pain ran up her arms, scolding the flesh of her hands. But she had to push through, she had to leave. She had to find Harry. They had to win this. So many had to's. So little time. She raised her knee, kicking over a small corner table as she pulled the rest of her body up into the frame. Her teeth were digging sharply into her lips, because she couldn't scream, she couldn't cry out in the pain that was fire through her bones. Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the burning, trying to focus her mind on her determination, her sheer will to escape. And she did. She hurled herself through, her whole body quaking in protest, an internal fire licking her organs, but then she was on wet grass, small dots of dew tickling her nose.

She got up, ran. Rocks and stones dug into the bare skin of her feet, but she didn't care, she couldn't care. She fought the burn, possibly harder than she'd ever fought anything before, and she carried on until she thought the distance was enough. Tree branches whipped into her sides and scratched her face, but she didn't stop until the depth of the forest had swallowed her up.

She'd never tried wandless apparition before, but she wasn't about to give up now. She tried desperately to steady her unstable breathing, her fingers stretching out the tension, but mostly she thought of one place, a home, safety, red hair and warm meals, smiling faces and the years that had passed. Then the air cracked around her, stealing her breath once again, and the surrounding forest vanished.

She fell face first into the ground. Coughing out grass and dirt, she pushed herself up on shaking elbows, her eyes blurry on the shape ahead of her, the outline of the Burrow. Somehow she'd made it, and she welcomed the bubble of emotion that choked her, sobbing mercilessly into the early morning. She called out, screamed for him to come. And then he was running towards her, his figure familiar, his sky-blue eyes wrecked with worry.

"_Ron!_"


	6. A Home of Betrayal and Ruins

**Hi! Just wanted to say thank you for reading! and big thanks to those who followed and favourited the story so far, it means ****a lot! **

**Song rec: Lydia - Now the one You Once Loved is Leaving**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 6: A Home of Betrayal and Ruins<strong>

Draco returned to the cottage with ten inches of vine hidden in his coat pocket. He knew where her wand had been, it had just been up to him whether he would go back to look for it or not. He did though, and he mentally cursed himself for it. Because she was like a bird with broken wings, and it sent a small pang to his chest whenever he would walk into her room only to see her clutching herself as if she would fade away.

He'd given up on trying to reason with himself about as to why he'd left her door unlocked that morning. Maybe he was just sick of seeing defeat in her shoulders, and her biting moods were tiring him. He hated how she verbally battled with him until she was literally too fatigued to stand, and he'd have to be the one to surrender his pride and give up on the argument, to leave the room, not that she was _capable_ of leaving, but for some reason he would not let himself be the death of her. He refused to stop and think about how maybe he already had been.

So he'd allowed her to leave the room. He would accept her walking around the cramped cottage as long as it meant there'd be a decline in her persistent moping. But he was wrong. That could never been a possibility, their peaceful co-existence, because as long as he was a Malfoy and she was Hermione Granger, there would always be hate. As soon as he moved through the living room he just _knew_ she was gone. He couldn't feel her, couldn't feel her magical spark of rage that would ever so gently flick against his senses when he wasn't paying attention. Gone. Fucking gone. The elf was unconscious, face down on the floor, and with haste he spat out the '_Enervate'_ spell.

"What the fuck happened!?"

The elf blinked blearily, raising a hand to rub at the ugly redness on its head. Enraged at the delay in the useless creatures response, Draco aimed a brutal kick at its ribs. "Where. The. fuck. is SHE!?"

The elf squealed, rapidly scuffling back to hide beneath the table. "M-Master, forgive Plushy—"

"Answer me, you miserable creature!"

"P-P-Plushy does not know, Sir. Plushy served Miss breakfast like ordered. T-Then Plushy felt something rather large and a-awful collide with the back of Plushy's head, S-sir." The elf cowered, expecting another blow, but none came, because Draco simply growled and eyed the fallen candlestick on the floor.

And then he had his wand out, and he did what was familiar, what felt right. Destroying. Pots and pans clanged to the ground, the porcelain of plates became tiny shards littering the tiles, and Draco did not stop until he felt every ounce of strength seep from his body.

He righted a fallen chair that had wadding tumbling out of the seat covering, and he collapsed onto it. And it was then when he noticed the trembling of his hands, his pronounced veins, blood rushing and pulsing, because he was _alive_. And by now, Granger probably wasn't. "_Fuck_." Why did it have to matter? Who said he had to _care_? But for some reason he told himself he had to, even if he didn't want to, because he'd spent too long being an apathetic prat, and war brought change, no matter how big or small. Maybe he even _wanted_ to change. Maybe thats why he'd followed her in the first place, why he'd brought her wand back, and why he'd been going—

Shit. He just couldn't do this, couldn't just sit and do nothing. And he hated himself for it. He was meant to be Draco Malfoy, a Slytherin, cold and calculated, but now he couldn't help but wonder if that was a title made up by himself or others, and whether or not he should choose to live by it.

* * *

><p>"Hermione, just speak- relax, it's okay now, you're okay."<p>

And she did, because she hadn't even known she'd been rigid and unmoving. She swallowed hard, the hot mug of tea in her hands thawing the chill that had settled under her skin. Hermione blinked, wearily looking up into the calm eyes of Ginny Weasley. Ron hadn't said anything since he'd carried her in, carefully avoiding the areas of charred flesh on her arms and legs. Molly had fussed over her, to the point where Hermione had thought the older witch would fall down after having a haemorrhage, but the woman was one of the strongest Hermione had ever had the pleasure of knowing, so after healing her wounds and fixing her two cups of tea, Molly had left Hermione alone with her two children.

"Hermione?"

Her head snapped up to meet Ginny's concerned voice. She and her brother were sitting on the couch opposite to where she sat huddled in blankets. "S-sorry."

"What happened?"

Hermione's frown tightened, tossing up on how much she should tell her friends, she decided she'd best start at the beginning. "Well, after I left I—"

"Went to London," Ron's gaze was somewhat harsh, but his voice was soft, and it was the first time he'd spoken to her in _months. _She swallowed thickly, raising her brows at his statement. "The prophet. You were nearly caught by a snatcher, 'Mione."

The confusion rekindled some sparks of an extinguished flame. "What? I was never—"

"Ron's right, Hermione. The snatcher was interrogated by the Death Eaters after, and then murdered for failing. They knew where you were, we all did, but for some reason you were only seen once…" Ginny trailed off, as if waiting for Hermione to explain why this was, but she couldn't, because even she didn't know why.

Yet the memory of a raised voice filtered through her thoughts, and she remembered the offence in steel eyes and yelled words. "_Twice."_

"What?" Hermione hadn't known she'd spoken aloud, so she bit her lip. She would _not_ look at Ron, because she still felt the sting of his betrayal like it was yesterday. The hurt of his defeat.

"I don't know how to tell you both this, but, well, M-Malfoy- he- he saved my life. Twice it seems-"

Ron was on his feet, his thick legs shoving the coffee table between them. "_What_ did you say?!" His face was flushed with a familiar rage.

Ginny placed a hand on her brother's sleeve, tugging him back down. "Calm down, Ronald. Let her finish—"

"Don't!" He shrugged her off, glaring across at Hermione, who was now forced to anxiously meet his gaze, "She just said—"

"I know what she said. Just shut up and let her continue. Or do I have to put a '_silencio'_ on you?"

Ron growled, but settled back onto the couch, yet his fists didn't unclench. Hermione gratefully looked at Ginny, her chest aching when she took in the girl's red eyes and worn face. She suddenly felt sickeningly selfish about her search for Harry, about leaving the Burrow, because while she had lost a friend, Ginny had lost a lover.

"Ginny—"

The red head shook her head, closing her eyes firmly as if she couldn't bare another word of solace. "Just.. go on."

"He- Malfoy- he found me, in London. One night, it was dark, and I saw him, he was just there, standing there, across the street. And I-I panicked, I ran away, and he must have followed me because I was about to be- oh _god."_ Her voice cracked.

"Hermione, just breathe. It's alright, it's just us." Ginny reached over and placed a wavering hand on her knee, and Hermione clutched it without thought.

"There were these men, two of them- they weren't snatchers, they were j-just- just muggles. And I didn't have my wand- I must have dropped it, and then- t-then they were touching me—" She was broken off by Ron's snarl, "Pushing me down, I couldn't see a _thing._ And my head- god my head, it hurt and it was black, but then t-there was something, there were shouts and now I know, it was Malfoy- because after he revived me and he was there—"

"Hermione," Ron croaked, he was stern, ordering her to look at him, so she did, "Did they— Did they—?"

For a second Hermione wondered what he would do if she said 'yes, yes they did violate me,' but then she realised that the _could have _was just as haunting, just as frightening. So she simply shook her head. "Malfoy found me in time."

Ginny let out an uneven breathe, and Hermione gazed down into the blackness of her tea. The drink had gone cold, as had most of the warmth it had brought her. "He took me to a house- a cottage actually, I don't know who owned it, but he—"

"That sick bastard!" Ron spat. "He—"

Much to her surprise, her own voice rose to battle down her friend, because somehow she was angry. "He saved my life, Ron!"

"He's still an evil git! No doubt he had some other bloody agenda when he kidnapped you—"

"He did _not_ kidnap me!" She halted, because she had used that exact word days ago, and now for some reason when it came from the mouth of another it felt wrong, tainted.

"You were gone for months, Hermione," Ginny interjected, calmly.

"I-I know, at first it was just London," The siblings looked at her with doubtful eyes, judging her, as if they didn't believe her. "I was looking for clues, anything! Anything that could tell me where Harry was! You don't understand—"

Ron stood again, he was livid. "Don't understand? Tell us then, tell us how the bloody hell we don't understand about our best friends death—"

"STOP." It was Ginny, her shout hoarse like gravel, and it halted them in their tracks. She eyed her brother with hate, pity, and when she turned to glance at Hermione her face was overflowing with hurt, burning tears falling down her cheeks. The younger girl got up and raced out of the living room, the fire of her hair trailing behind her in mournful wisps.

Hermione moved to follow her, but Ron lunged for her wrist. Hermione looked up at the tallness of him, her friend, but her dark eyes brimming with sadness. "Do you actually believe that, Ron? Or do you just tell yourself he's dead because that's what's easier?"

Ron's pale eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. "You're wrong about him, Hermione. I know he's gone, I can feel it—"

Hermione slapped him across the face, hard. His jaw dropped, a red mark blooming where her palm had hit. "You're a _coward_," she seethed, "and when I find Harry, I'll tell him that he doesn't deserve someone as gutless as you, someone who betrayed—"

"_Betrayed!_?" He shouted, "You just can't let things go! Fuck, Hermione! You don't see it, do you? We _all_ know he's gone. Even Ginny does! But she still cried her eyes out for days after you left! Because she wished you'd taken her with you! _That_ is fucking betrayal!"

"I- I didn't know—"

"Well now you do! And she'll never get over him with you bringing him up like that—"

"She won't need to, because he's alive—"

"No, will you just shut up and—"

"And I _will_ find him, Ronald. So don't you _dare_ tell me to shut up." Her word was final, and Ron's mouth clamped shut, because if there was anything he knew about arguing with Hermione, it was when was the wisest to give up, and now should be that time. But Harry wasn't with them. He wasn't there to cool Ron's temper, or to tell him to "Leave it, mate." He wasn't around to hug Hermione after the conflict, he was no longer that _something_ that kept them together.

After a short pause, Ron said, "I'm no longer that person, you know. I'm not that weak and lousy kid that you can just boss around. I've grown up, 'Mione, and you should too."

Hermione felt stunned, as if someone had poured ice water down her back. "_Grow up_? Is that some roundabout way of telling me to get over it? To hurry up and forget about my best friend? What the _hell_, Ron? _Who_ are you? I-I can't believe what you're saying, how you can just be so ready to- to move on? Does Harry mean nothing to you? Is this seven years of friendship just- just down the drain?"

"No—"

"How can you live with yourself? Knowing that you've done nothing—"

"I—"

"That you've just given up—"

"I haven't—"

"You stand there like a child and tell _me_ to grow up! When you're the one who doesn't even know what friendship is."

"HE BETRAYED _US_!" He slammed her shoulders, roughly forcing her back into a bookcase. And she couldn't do anything but stare, his hot breath in her face and the heat of his tears splashing down onto her cheeks. Ron Weasley had become broken in a matter of seconds, and it shook her to the core. He let out a dry heave, attempting to fight the sobs which he'd hidden many times beyond closed doors. "Y-you can hate me all you want, but- but I'd rather know he's dead than think my best mate betrayed me, that he… that he forgot about us."

Her heart broke for him, because now she _knew_. And she'd resented him for not _caring,_ but the truth was he _did _care, it was just in a very different way from the Ron Weasley she used to know. "Ron…"

He shook his head, begging for her not to speak. So she didn't. Instead she reached out to him, ignoring the pain in her shoulders, and she drew him close to her. Ron sobbed, a splintered, guttural sound, but he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, buried his face into her neck, and she _felt_ rather than heard his tears. This was the boy she had loved, the boy she had gone on adventures with, Ron, together they'd risked their lives, for _Harry_. And for the first time in months Hermione feared that what Ron had said was true, that maybe he was right. She pushed it out of her mind, focusing on the boy who she'd watched grow into a man, the boy who maybe she could love properly if they were in a different world, a world without war. But for now there was only comfort. A comfort which came months too late, but still it bound a little of the damage, and as the minutes grew upon each other several pieces of what Hermione had been so desperately searching for, clicked back together again.

She stroked his back, soothingly, and his arms tightened around her. He nuzzled her, and Hermione felt _warm_ again. He broke the silence, raising his forehead to rest against hers. "I-I missed you, 'Mione. _So_ much."

Hermione sighed, "I missed you too, Ron."

"Then promise me that you won't leave again."

He opened his eyes, begging her, and for a moment she faltered, affirmation on her tongue.

_Harry_.

"Ron, I- you know I can't—"

"You have to. You'll get caught."

"I won't—"

"Malfoy found you!" He stepped back from her, irritated, his blue eyes boring into her.

"That was an accident," she countered.

"Exactly, accidents happen, right Hermione? You can't take any more chances. _Hell_, you were almost ra—" He choked on the word, the sickening taste of it unwelcome in his mouth.

She instinctually clutched Molly's dressing gown tighter around her body, feeling uneasy. "Let's drop it." He looked at her strangely, because Hermione Granger never 'just dropped' things.

"Okay… and Malfoy?" She glared at him pointedly, because that clearly wasn't dropping it, "What happened, at that cottage place? How'd you get away?"

She pursed her lips, figuring she better just get it out in the open now, just so Ron would stop badgering her about it. She made her way back over to the couch, bringing her legs up to rest under her chin.

Ron took the seat next to her this time, and she couldn't help the smile that came with how normal it felt, just for a little moment.

She cleared her throat, "Well… Like I said, I don't know who's place it was. It was out in the country somewhere though—"

"A Death Eater headquarters?" he piped, a little too eagerly.

"No. And even if it was, I have no idea how to get back there. It happened so quickly, I climbed out the window, and there were wards up, powerful ones," she ran her hands over her knees, the burning sensation fresh in her mind, "And after that, I just ran into the woods, and then apparated here."

He looked at her, an appraising glint in his eyes. "Blimey, 'Mione. I didn't know you could do wandless apparition?"

She smiled meekly. "Neither did I."

He nodded approvingly, impressed. "How do you know it wasn't a Death Eater place?"

She shrugged. "It was pretty small, and the bedroom I stayed in had—"

"Bedroom?" Ron's eyebrows raised.

"Yes, I told you—"

"Bloody hell, Malfoy gave _you_ a bedroom?"

Hermione frowned, peeved at his continuous interruptions. "I wouldn't say it was given to me, it was still imprisonment," she said bitterly.

"Yeah, well, there were no chains, right? Still, he must have been waiting for his fellow Death Eater scum to come and—"

"For the last time, Ronald! The cottage had nothing to do with Death Eaters. Look, on the night- the night _it _happened, when he found me, something else happened, something strange," For some reason she leaned closer, lowering her voice, "Malfoy killed those men. Then there were flashes of light, spells, and we knew Death Eaters were coming. They must have been keeping track on killing curses, because then they were right _there_, right in front of us. But Malfoy pulled me away, he hid with me, Ron. He said he wasn't one of them." She didn't tell him about what she'd heard them say, because neither of them needed to talk about Harry again right now.

"Bull shit, he's lying—"

"He healed me. I would have died if he hadn't come. He could have _let_ me die, but he didn't."

Ron eyed her skeptically. "I dunno, 'Mione, it all sounds a little weird to me."

"Of course it's weird. All I'm saying is Malfoy wasn't, _isn't_, working for the dark side anymore." She rushed it out, because it sounded wrong and impossible even to her.

"That's not possible—"

"War changes people, Ron. For better or worse." Her brown eyes shone golden in the fading afternoon light, and she _dared_ him to argue. Because maybe part of her statement was an indication about the two of them, about differences and _change. _Ron wisely didn't provoke her further, so she stood up. "I'm going to go talk to Ginny. Oh, and tomorrow I'm going to go and look for my wand—"

"You can't!" Ron spluttered.

"I _can_, and I will. You're welcome to come. But for now, I'm done talking about this. I'm going to find Ginny and then go to bed. So goodnight, Ronald."

They were both tired, and she knew the argument was lost to Ron, so she simply walked away, listening for his own reply of a 'goodnight.' But it never came, because at that moment they both looked towards the bottom of the staircase, where Ginny Weasley was trapped in the arms of a cloaked man, the white bone mask prominent in the shadows, and a wand jabbed into the skin of her neck.

Hermione screamed, because this was the _Burrow_, it was meant to be _safe_, a home, and because there was blood on Ginny's chest. Ron was yelling something, his voice muted behind the heavy beating of blood in her eardrums, and then there was a jet of red light speeding towards her, and she just _stood_ there, paralysed in the lines of the enemy.

"MOVE!" Ron's voice, panicked, urgent, and she was blasted to the side, her head smacking into the ground, and she had no _time_. But she didn't have a wand either, so Hermione was forced to keep her face to the floorboards, sucking in painful gasps as the explosions of magic continued to crack above her, raining wood and debris and filling her lungs with smoke.

When she looked to right she could see Ginny lying limply amongst broken table legs, where she must have been thrown after Ron's initial attack, her brown eyes hazy and far off, but locked in Hermione's direction. "G-Ginny." It was a wheeze, and she reached her hand out, slowly moving her frozen limbs so she could begin to crawl over to the other girl. Suddenly there was a searing tear against her back, and the ripping of skin, and Hermione screamed, a chilling gurgling sound. Ron swore, yet he did not waver in his continual bombardment of spells thrown at the Death Eater. It was happening so quickly, she couldn't focus, all she knew was the throbbing pain at her lower back, and the hot, thick feeling of blood soaking her gown. If Hermione had been more coherent, she would have marvelled a the controlled fury on Ron's face, the way in which he fought, because he was no longer that clumsy, awkward boy, he was an adult who'd become a man because of a war. But all she could do was force every amount of energy into her muscles so she could get to Ginny. Ginny wasn't moving, and that was the thing that frightened Hermione the most right now. If they had been any amount of years younger, she would be scared beyond her wit about Ron's safety, but if there was anything she now knew about her friend it was that he had proven to be a very apt wizard, and somehow it made her proud.

"Gin—" She was cut off by the rising of blood in her own mouth, her arms giving way, and she slumped forward, vomiting red onto the floor.

"HERMIONE!" Ron screeched, casting spell after spell until all Hermione could hear was deafening bangs, her senses closing down on her. Her chest felt like lava, and as each second passed the struggle to breathe became harder. The only thing she could do was _hope_. Hope that somebody, Molly— _Molly._

_"__Ron—" _There was no way he could hear her, but he had to know. Because there was no way that his mother wouldn't have been down with them unless she was seriously hurt, or if she was being restrained. Which would mean that there was more than one Death Eater in the house. How was this possible? How had they not heard anything? What about the _wards_? Her head swum in dizzy circles, the pain in her back bordering on unbearable. She could feel numbness seeping into her legs, and her body began to shake. She willed her last remaining strength into looking up at him, his broad back and his ginger hair, and it was then when she realised, _he had never given up, and he never would_. "Ron!"

And then he turned. Not because he'd heard her, but because the front door of the Burrow, of his home, suddenly caved in, taking a decent chunk of the wall with it, and then there were _more_. That was all it took, that single second of distraction, for a jet of light to hit him square in the back. Hermione watched him fall, watched as he sunk to his knees before collapsing forward. _Ron. Ron Ron Ron. RON!_ And she'd said it aloud, she'd screamed it until she thought the blood in her throat would drown her, just like in her dreams, but she didn't care. Because she could _not _have him taken from her. Not him. Not after Harry.

But that didn't matter. Because she was weak, wandless, dying maybe. And everything was black.


	7. An Undesired Meeting, Imprisonment

**Please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own a thing**

**Song recs: You Me at Six - When we were Younger, A Perfect Circle - The Noose**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 7: An Undesired Meeting, Imprisonment <strong>

Saint Mungo's was the same as Draco remembered. Bleak and full of the weak, pitiful people he would on most occasions do his best to avoid. Death and sickness clung to every crevice in the looming hallways, and nearly every healer he passed would turn and follow him with their wary expressions of fear and respect. It sickened him really. How people used to look at him with anxious loathing, a Death Eater's son, that pale hair of a _Malfoy, how_ _repulsive, _they had said. The prospect of his death and disappearance had probably been one to marvel at, to rejoice at even. Upon seeing him quite alive and _well_, as he was up and walking instead of moping around in a hospital bed like all the other miserable sods in this place, their very obvious disappointment was suffocating. As was their blatant desire to either pretend he didn't exist, or to suck up to him as they clearly thought him to be on the _winning_ side. The dark side. Good, he thought. Let them think that, it wasn't as if he wanted anyone questioning his motives for coming here anyway. Hell, he hardly let himself question his own motives these days. It was easier to just _do. _That way it was detached, an emotionless, clean cut from inner turmoil. Like this, he didn't have to_ care._

He strode up to the ward receptionist, a stout woman who frowned suspiciously upon seeing him. She didn't say anything, she just pursed her fat lips and peered at him with distaste. Draco, immediately irritated, growled. "Weasley."

The receptionist's eyes widened, and with a small cough to cover up her noise of surprise, she pushed her glasses further up her nose with two fat fingers and said, "_Mr._ Weasley is not currently—"

Draco slammed his fists down on the desk, his voice an eery octave of feigned patience and verbal venom. "I don't care whether he has visitors permitted, or if he's currently indisposed due to the giant, ginger growth on his neck, I need to see him. So hurry up and tell me where the _fuck_—"

She coughed hastily, and it was even more fake than his rapidly fading facade of patience. "Sir, please." She looked around uneasily, and as if to assure anyone passing that all was well she cast a small, forced smile, and then turned back to Draco. "You need to leave."

Why did every ignorant human being exist purely to waste his time? He leant closer over the desk, and hissed, "No, I need to see Weasley. And if you have anything further to say, I suggest you just shut the fuck—" He grinned at her, "—up, and tell me which room he's in. Otherwise, I'll have to bring in a… _superior_, to get things sorted."

A small part of him had missed bullying people into doing his bidding, it felt almost _normal_, and he relished the transition between defiance and fear cross the woman's face, even though he'd spoken the words 'need' and 'Weasley' in the same sentence twice now, something he never wished to repeat.

"Down that corridor, last door on your left."

Draco knew she knew who he was, and he also knew that she would wisely comply with his unvoiced order of not telling anyone he was here, and more importantly, whom he had visited. He stormed off, his coat billowing behind him, and followed the grim corridor until he came to a stop at the very last door on the left. He saw his hand hesitate when he reached to open it, an action which startled him. Nervousness was not something he knew well. And wait, why the fuck should he be nervous about meeting the Weasel? He scowled into the dim, putrid lighting, deciding it didn't matter, that it couldn't matter, not until he left with what he'd come for. And Malfoy's always got what they wanted.

So he opened the door, he took off the lid of bottled up school rivalries, and there was Weasley, red fucking hair and all, except he now looked quite the pulp, and Draco had to suppress a laugh. He was sitting up in the bed, bandages wrapped around his torso and dark blotted bruises were scattered around his face. His head was turned to the window, clearly he hadn't noticed Draco's presence yet, which meant he was either deaf or just completely stupid. Draco assumed it was probably both. And that was it, that tiny snigger he couldn't manage to withhold, that tiny noise which zapped whatever was so goddamn interesting about the window, and drew all of Weasley's attention in his direction.

Draco had never seen the procession of anyone's emotions displayed so glaringly and openly obvious before, and he had to fight to keep his stance so relaxed and casual. He watched as Weasley's ugly features went from shocked, to confused, and then enraged in a matter of seconds. His face turned a shocking shade of red, barely noticeable beneath the dashes of his purple injuries, as he apparently fought to keep hold of his anger. Draco's eyes narrowed, evidently the Weasel had grown up more than he'd thought.

"_Malfoy_."

"Good to know one of us remembers my name, Weasel, I was beginning to forget." Ron's face scrunched up in fury, and then pain, and Draco snickered. "Looks like you're too incapacitated to hit me, Weasel."

"Why don't you come over here and say that? You cowardly bastard." Draco scoffed, pathetic insults, maybe nothing had changed after all.

"Oh? I'm a coward am I? That's rich—"

"Yes, you are. Lurking in the shadows like the fucking prat you are."

Draco stepped closer, the heel of his shoe squeaked unpleasantly against the floor, and the noise made Weasley cringe. Draco was just thinking about doing it again, recreating the noise, until he remembered why he was there. He forced his mind to stay in the present, to not get snagged by the past, this wasn't about Weasley. So he cleared his throat.

Ron beat him to it. "What the fuck do you want, Malfoy?"

The question caught Draco off guard. He'd been expecting 'why are you here' and 'fuck off' but not that. It was unexpected. He knew the ginger oaf was probably asking what he sought at present, what he was doing in a room with somebody he despised, but Draco couldn't help but liken his question to what he wanted in the long run. He swallowed away the dryness in his throat, and glared at the swollen face of his enemy. "Information."

"Information? Fuck off. What could I possibly say that you'd be interested in?" Ah, so there was the 'fuck off' he'd been waiting for.

"Nothing, nothing at all Weasley. You are possibly the most boring and witless person in England, hence why I thought I'd just drop by for a nice chat, maybe some tea—"

"Shut up. If you've got nothing better to do than gloat, do me a favour and piss the hell off."

"Do you a favour? When hell frosts over, maybe, until then—"

"I don't know where Hermione is."

He sounded tired, worn out, hell, he looked like he'd gone for a romp with the Whomping Willow, but Draco didn't care about any of that. He wished he didn't care about anything, but then he wouldn't be here, he wouldn't have frozen as soon as _her _name had spilled from the Weasel's beaten mouth. And for some reason both the fondness and the guilt it was spoken with, made Draco want to punch him. He wouldn't lower himself to hit a man in a hospital bed though, even if they were a stupid blood traitor, so instead he played a different card.

"What makes you think I care about that mudblood?" His voice sounded full of gaping holes, not as apathetic as he'd hoped to be, but Weasley didn't pick up on it, he didn't even look like he'd heard the familiar derogatory insult. In fact, he just looked like shit, something which Draco thought acceptable to state aloud. "You look like shit."

Weasley just grunted, and for a moment Draco was pissed off because there was no anger, there was hate, but there was no room for anger, because the Weasel was lost, he couldn't _care_ about why Draco was here, and he most certainly wasn't _scared_. "Yeah well, I feel like shit." And that was that. He turned back to gaze out the window, at what, Draco couldn't see.

Weasley's resignation was so sudden, so heavy, that Draco visibly took a step back. And then all that anger that he thought he'd lost, frustration and rage, came plummeting into his gut. Because here was Ron, Granger's best friend, probably even her fucking boyfriend, and all he was doing was sitting gloomily in a hospital bed like a mushroom in a cave. Fucking pushover. _Weak. _He thought of those days in London, where he had followed Granger, _protected_ her, as much as he loathed to admit it. He'd done the job that the man in front of him should have been doing, should _still_ be doing. But most of all he was mad because he cared about any of it. About all of it.

"You're a fucking dick, did you know that, Weasel?" Draco hadn't planned on saying it, but he didn't regret it. Especially not when Weasley's head snapped toward him and his face twisted up like a toad bleeding puss.

"What the fuck do you know?" He snapped.

Draco smirked, "More than you think."

Ron glared at him, his eyes surveying, as if he was sizing Draco up and noting everything he would need to know in case of a fight. Weasel wasn't that smart though, and apparently he didn't like what he saw. Good.

"Get the fuck out, now."

Draco just laughed, and the effect it had on Weasley was delightful. "What are you going to do, call for mummy?" Weasley's blue eyes glazed over, pure resentment, and Draco relished in it, remembering that small detail he'd read in the paper. "Ah, that's right. Mummy's a few doors down, isn't she? They did a nasty number on her—"

"Shut up! Don't you _dare_! You piece of shit! You're a fucking liar! You never—'Mione was wrong about—"

"What? _Oh_. Had a little heart to heart with the mudblood did you?" His words were fire, unleashed, he couldn't stop. "Did she also tell you what a lousy fucking sod you are? That's two so called _friends_ you've now deserted. _Two. _And you didn't even do a thing. Not even when your own sister and your fuck buddy _mudblood_—"

Hands were around his throat, sweaty and constricting, and his sentence died in a choked gasp. Weasley had moved with surprising speed, and Draco didn't have time to react before his back bashed against the wall and his body was pinned by the sickening weight of a Weasley. There was growling, spit, uneven movements, and then Ron's voice. "You. will. not. talk. about her. like that." He was panting, and Draco didn't know who he was talking about, Granger, or his sister. Draco took his chance, throwing a fist straight into the already blackened face.

Weasley crumpled, his already weak body failing him, and his head smacked against the ground. Draco straightened himself up, brushed his hands over his coat as if all he'd had on him were the distasteful crumbs of a bad meal. His knuckles stung with the force of his punch, but it was worth it. He flared his nostrils and glared down at the ginger heap at his feet. "You sicken me." He turned and made to leave, but the voice behind him gave him pause.

"You'll never find her… And even if you do—" There was a gargle, and Draco shuddered as he heard Weasley spit blood, and hopefully a tooth or two, onto the floor, "… If you do, she'll always hate you. You'll always be a Death Eater, Malfoy."

Draco left. He slammed the door, wistfully hoping it'd been loud enough to burst the eardrum of a certain red-headed patient. Weasley's parting words had meant nothing to him. At least, that was what he told himself. After all, he'd gotten what he'd came for.

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><p>It had been three days, Hermione guessed. She couldn't be sure, because it was dark all the time, just blackness, and the overwhelming stench of vomit and faeces. It drove into her skull and sent her reeling to grasp something, a sense of time, anything, anything that mattered. But most of the time she couldn't find anything, because the burning hunger in her stomach coiled into the same pain that controlled the rest of her body, and she could only lie there, clinging to her thoughts, because they were all she had. Otherwise she'd succumb. Otherwise she'd lose herself.<p>

It reminded of her of all those months ago, in a beaten down hotel in London, where she realised who she'd always been, and who she could start to be. It reminded her of the scratchy bed sheets, and how she'd do anything right now to curl up in them and forget about everything she'd ever known to be real. It made her think of weeks wasted, of cold eyes and Malfoy, and how she'd been _so_ stupid. She'd been caught, trapped, _twice_. But she'd also been saved _twice._ So was it really that greedy of her to beg for a third time? She cried and she hoped, and she'd never felt so childish before, so lost and useless, because no one was coming for her. Malfoy definitely wasn't. Harry wasn't. And Ron… _Ron. _She was too dehydrated for tears, so instead she heaved and she wretched and she gasped and she just _broke_.

She broke. Hermione had always imagined her death, had always known that one day it would come and that she would be ready, but it was never like this. She had envisioned a battle, a war, and a fight beside Harry, and then she would die and she would save her best friend, because that was important, that was what _mattered_. Harry mattered, because he needed to live, he needed to _win_. And here she was, dying, and it wasn't right, it was _not _supposed to be like this.

The wound on her back was infected, and she couldn't move, she didn't _dare _move, because it was like fire and she could feel _things_ crawling. Things that scurried in the dankness, through the dripping pipes and into the thick wetness around her, insects that would have once made her shriek, because she had thought them to be evil. But that wasn't true, it was never true, nature could never be _evil_. Humans created evil, they lived and they breathed it, and they would not stop until nature was a wasteland in their wake. _People_ were evil. They were evil when she heard Ginny scream through the cold bricks around her, and they were still evil when her screams stopped, and all Hermione could hear was silence, and her own yells dying in her throat. She thought if there was only some way she could just _die,_ and by doing so everyone else would get to live. Good would prevail, and all the Death Eaters would just cease to be, and Voldemort would fail. If _only_. But she wasn't Harry Potter, she never would be heroic, she was just Hermione, just brains, and now even her intellect couldn't save her. She was alone in the claustrophobic basement, dungeon, whatever it was, and she hated it, she hated it _so_ much, yet not as much as she hated her inability to move, to do something.

They would come for her soon, they always did. They always came after Ginny's screams stopped, and if Hermione had the strength to speak she would say to them,_ please,_ kill me and leave Ginny alone, I'll do anything. Because maybe that was the only brave thing she could do, the only speck of courage she had left after everything that had happened, after all the _torture_. All the pain. And then maybe they would, they'd kill her and let Ginny go free, and then Ginny would find Harry, and together they'd win, they'd beat _him_, and one day the two would sit by a fire and tell their children, "Hermione Granger died for us, for you, so we could all live," and they would be _happy_. And Hermione would be happy too, because she would die knowing that she was doing something that Harry would do, _sacrifice_.

Metal scraped against stone, and Hermione's erratic breathing came to a jagged halt. They had come. She couldn't see anything, and for a second she wondered if she was actually in a big white room, and her eyes were just so swollen that they couldn't possibly be functional. But then she smelt it, the hatred, her own vomit, and a savouriness that choked her as the air from outside her confinement burst in. Footsteps against bricks, coming closer and getting louder. Hermione had deduced there were stairs leading up to the exit during the first hours of her imprisonment, right before that first bout of inscrutable pain.

But now there was something else, laughter. And blood. Heavy and metallic. Hermione wanted to be sick. She wanted to scream. But her lungs wouldn't let her, because they felt bruised, even punctured. The two men stopped beside her hunched figure, chuckling, talking about the girl from the other room, and her fear, and how she'd wept and begged them to stop, but they didn't, and her cries just made them hornier. Hermione whimpered, because she _knew_. She knew they meant Ginny. And she pleaded in her mind, begged that she wasn't—

"Dead. Oh yes. Pity Potter wasn't here to see it. The way she arched and _writhed!_" Deep, bellowing laughter. Hermione had never wanted to kill another person as much as she did right then. Maybe that was because someone so evil didn't deserve to be a person, shouldn't even be _called_ a person. Sobs wracked through her body, and everywhere hurt so, so much.

"We can ask you again, mudblood, and if you're as smart as they say you are, then you'll bloody well answer. _Where is he_?" One of them kicked her, hard, in the ribs, and if she hadn't already thought they were broken, she was now certain. Her groan wasn't fully formed, it was a whispered moan of utter pain, because she swore she could now feel her own bones piercing her flesh. She reached out, her bloody fingers grasping for an ankle, to squeeze, to break something, to harm. But then she heard the rustling of fabric, the withdrawal of a wand, and then she was in the air, her spine contorted, and gleeful, maniacal laughter plagued her on both sides. The pain was like thorned vines, wrapping itself around every organ, every bone, and _squeezing, _until she could imagine, vividly, blood trickling out of every pore, every rip in her skin, filling her insides, until she was _nothing_. As abruptly as it started, it stopped, and she was thrown to the ground, her head clunking with bricks and sending her teeth clattering down on her tongue. She tasted blood, she smelled blood, it was everywhere, it was everything.

Dirt was kicked in her direction, she felt it fill her nostrils and sting her panting throat, and then one of them crouched down beside her, grabbing her jaw and jerking her face in their direction. Strong fingers forced her mouth open wider, sliding through blood and broken teeth, and then there was a wand in her mouth, hard and steady, piercing the back of her throat. "WHERE IS HE?" The force of his anger shoved the wood further into her flesh and she gagged, spitting blood down her chin.

She could not do this, she could not reply, she could not fight any longer. She wanted to _go_. "…K-Kill—" He slapped her face, hard, sending a ringing numbness throughout her head.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS HARRY POTTER?"

"Kill me…"

The Death Eater growled, slamming her head back into the wall, again, and again. And then he was pulled back, thrown to the ground. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" He spat at the other one, the interrupter. Hermione could barely register the sounds of their scuffling, everything around her was just hot pain, to the point where she felt frozen.

"We were told to go easy on this one! She can't die, you know this! And you were bloody well killing her!" This one sounded younger, less in tune to dark ways, but still evil. Otherwise he wouldn't be here.

"I don't give a damn fuck—"

"Well _he_ does. Okay? Do you want to die? Because that's what'll happen. He'll kill the fuck out of you if he finds out—"

"Shut up. She's still alive—"

"_Barely._ Fucking hell." There was a grunt, and then Hermione was pulled up by her hair. "_Shit_. Look at her, how the _fuck_ is she meant to tell us anything like this?" Her head lolled around on her shoulders, she just wanted to fall down, to collapse and just quietly _pass, _but then there was a wand at her neck again, this time not as harsh, but still jabbing, and then slowly, oh so slowly, she felt the magical drizzle through her veins, that delicious heat that was warm and healing and terrific.

She felt air fill her lungs, clicks in her bones, and her aching muscles managed to finally hold her up. And her mind, oh her _mind_, it reeled and spun, and her brain, the only thing she had left, would save her. Because she was Hermione Granger, and although she had broke, she would never be broken. She knew whatever healing spell the Death Eater had cast would only be temporary, and soon enough she would wilt like a flower in the sun, and she would die. But it was her last hope, just a tiny flickering flame alone in the darkness, so she gasped and murmured, "I— I know where Harry is."

She was grabbed, flung, then grabbed again, "If you fucking lie to us, then you're dead. You're dead mudblood, you hear!? No more bullshit, it'll be the end and you'll scream so damn loud as I fucking tear into you—"

"I can take you to him…" She whispered. His words made her sick, and she would not vomit right now, not when it was her final chance. There was silence, just three pairs of uneven breathing and the unspoken vows of a permanent hatred.

One of them chuckled, low and gruesome, "You think we're that stupid?"

If Hermione had been somewhere else, in a different time, then she would have said, 'yes, I know you're that stupid.' But she wasn't, she was here, and as close to death as she'd ever been, so instead she just said, "I know where he is."

The two obviously exchanged glances in the dimness, but Hermione could only make out their silhouettes, dark and horrid.

"I think we should, she's wandless, what the fuck can a wandless mudblood do to us?"

"Potter won't be fucking wandless—"

"Potter will be simple. We have her, a hostage. Nothing could be easier."

"I dunno—"

"The Dark Lord would be pleased."

Silence. Hermione could feel her heart, racing and pulsing, begging to be let free. She ground her teeth, ignoring the stickiness of blood still in her mouth, and _hoped_.

And then, "Alright," was spat out in front of her, and she'd never felt so exhilarated and scared all at once.

There was movement, the waving of wands as wards were taken down, and then Hermione felt her wrists tugged sharply behind her, bound magically, and she was pushed forwards. The Death Eaters grabbed her, their hands burrowing sickeningly into her hair, her shirt, and she urged her breath to steady, willed her memories to overcome her. Images filled her mind, green grass and rocky mountains, the trickling of water from beyond a bedroom window. This needed to work. _Please_ let him be there. And with an expected crack, they disappeared.


	8. Found and Broken

**Song rec: Sheets by Damien Jurado and Where is my mind? either Placebo's cover, or the original by Pixies. **

**Enjoy :)**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 8: Found and Broken<strong>

Plushy was in the garden, gardening, as any humble elf would do when trying to keep the exterior of their master's abode both prim and proper. Plushy had been kept rather busy the past few days. After disappointing Master Malfoy Plushy had gone to great lengths to ensure her Master's contentment. Plushy had repaired all of the destroyed furniture, both magically and physically, and had suffered several unfortunate blisters in the process. After his departure, Plushy had cooked a hearty stew for lunch, had set the table for two, and had then waited eagerly for the return of Master Malfoy and his Miss. To say Plushy had been disheartened and glum after several hours of waiting would be an understatement. Plushy had sadly scraped the cold meal into the bin, however not before sampling a healthy portion for herself, and had then gone about preparing dinner.

Dinner had followed lunch, cold and uneaten, then into the rubbish, and Plushy had then reluctantly gone to her bed in the small basement, and had eventually fallen into a fitful slumber. Plushy had repeated this routine, breakfast included, for five days now, and only once had her Master turned up. That was two nights ago, and despite Plushy's anxious enquiries, Master Malfoy had only snapped at her, and stayed by the fire for hours without moving, like a very agitated statue.

It had been so long since Plushy had begun looking after the little cottage, and the sudden development of new company was something she delightfully accepted. When Plushy was first hired Mistress Malfoy had been cold, yet distantly kind, and Plushy had felt a rush of loyalty upon being employed, and vowed silently to do her best to serve her Mistress. Mistress had warned her, "Elf, my sister may or may not arrive, and whether or not this turns out to be true, you must withhold my dignity and continue to work as a slave to the Malfoy's. Do not fail me." So Plushy did. She worked hard. She cleaned and she scrubbed every day, dusting the same banisters and washing the same cutlery. And no body had ever turned up. Plushy was, to say the least, extremely lonely. Then Master Malfoy had turned up on the doorstep, wet like a puppy, and Plushy had squirmed with sudden delight and recognition. Only, Plushy noted with a hidden glee, he hadn't been alone, there was a girl in his arms. Plushy had offered to heal the girl and levitate her to the couch, yet her Master had declined with a gruff shake of his head, and had done the job himself. It had made Plushy wonder. And just like that, Plushy had become reunited with a sense of _purpose._

Plushy now thought about this with a fond sort of nostalgia, and continued to frolic around in the dirt, searching for the pumpkin seeds she had planted a few days ago. Plushy preferred gardening in the human, muggle way, it was a very soothing hobby, and it calmed her erratic thoughts. Plushy enjoyed it very much, in fact.

Plushy was just reaching into her basket, which contained a rare assortment of flora bulbs, when she heard it, a very deafening crack, and she was ashamed to admit that the fright it gave her made her shriek and cower.

It couldn't be her Master, because he always arrived with hardly any noise, as he was skilled with apparition, so Plushy quickly became suspicious.

The little elf ducked behind a tall patch of weeds, something which she had planned on pulling out a few minutes ago, and watched closely through the grass. There were two tall men, cloaked in dark robes, and Plushy knew who they were almost immediately, from the time when her Mistress had hired her, and Plushy had the pleasure of entering the manor, and Plushy had _seen_. She had seen them all at a very long table, dark and plotting, and Plushy had been _scared_. The same dread washed over her now, and her lip trembled. And then she saw, caught between them and being shoved downwards, was Master Malfoy's Miss. Plushy gasped, and then stifled it by shoving her fist in her mouth. Plushy had to do something!

There was no way Plushy could attack them, because there were two and they were big, scary, and Plushy had never been any good when it came to offensive magic. Plushy was only good at cleaning and gardening and being a good elf. Plushy was distracted, because her large ears suddenly picked up on their voices.

"Well!? Where the fuck is he?" Said the fatter of the two, Plushy observed.

"He— He's in—"

"POTTER! I suggest you come out! We've got your mudblood!"

Plushy's skinny legs shook, she was so nervous. What could she do? Master's Miss looked so scared, and ill. She was covered in blood and her face was nearly unrecognisable, and the two men had wands at her throat. Plushy had to go and find Master Malfoy. She just had to. Because she liked his Miss a lot, she was very kind to Plushy, and Plushy would not fail his Master by letting something happen to his Miss. So, despited being forbidden by her Mistress that she was never to leave the cottage, even in dire circumstances, Plushy clicked her fingers and apparated with a very faint snap.

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><p>Draco was close. The bloke he'd been following had a fifty percent chance of being Potter. If it turned out he was wrong, then he'd simply cast a quick memory charm and be done with it, as he'd rather not have anyone thinking they were indecently harassed by a Malfoy. Actually, maybe it'd make his father turn in his grave, cause him to choke on some dirt in his cold, dead throat. That was a comforting thought. In fact, he supposed everything he had been doing the past month would make Lucius's rotting corpse just that little bit more rotten. That was a cheerful thought. Imagine what he would do if he found out his son had been doing all this for the sake of a mudblood. That was an unwelcome thought, and an entirely untrue one. Draco wanted to spit out the horrible taste in his mouth, but decided otherwise, as he'd rather not lower himself to the same standards of the putrid muggle he had seen doing that very thing in the street all those weeks ago.<p>

No, he was not doing this for anyone, except maybe himself. If he found Potter then he would probably end up killing him himself. That was what Draco wanted to think. Because if he did that then there really would be no hope left for a changed outcome of this bloody war. But if he did that then he would beat all of the hate out of him, he'd transmit it from his own body into Potter's dead carcass, and then perhaps he'd be _better_. Better, not happy, because happiness was for the weak.

He rounded a corner of Knockturn Alley, sticking to the shadows, and was promptly pulled to the side by a small figure. Draco cursed, shrugging the tight grip away from his person in distaste. But then the giant luminous eyes of Andromeda's elf looked up at him, filled with grimness and worry, and Draco only had time to raise an eyebrow at the creature before it was flapping it's gums, spitting out strangled sentences.

"What—-?" _Your Miss. _It couldn't possibly mean— It couldn't be trying to tell him that Granger was _alive_? And at the _cottage_? Maybe that blow with the candlestick had done it some real damage, but then it mentioned the word 'blood,' and 'danger,' and he stopped cold, his stomach dropping, and Draco could no longer think straight.

* * *

><p>Hermione listened intently, her heart stuck limply in her throat, as the Death Eater's voice rung heavily through the small valley. It was the first time she'd seen the cottage from this angle. It was quaint and nestled comfortably in a nook of the mountainside, greenness everywhere, and this time she wasn't running from it, and instead of fear she felt <em>hope<em>. But she could barely focus on any of that now, because the magic in her veins was rapidly flooding out of her skin, and every ache and pain was coming back to her. She felt the heat of the wound on her back, her gaping flesh stinging in the cold air, and slowly every needle like remnant of her torture was stabbing into her skin.

Silence. Malfoy mustn't have been there. _Stupid_. Why would he be? Why had she thought for one second that he would help her? How was he any different from the men behind her? What if he came out and saw them and he just laughed at her torment, at her broken body? Maybe he would congratulate the Death Eaters for doing a job he hadn't managed, and then together the three of them would have her on her knees, and this time she really would _die_.

For one very short second, Hermione thought of the elf, but then there was a hand in her hair, tearing at her scalp, and she fell forward with a cry that made her lungs want to explode.

"POTTER!?"

Nothing.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against the damp grass, the chill offering the tiniest bit of relief to her swollen face.

"He ain't here." One said to the other. Hermione heard a small trace of uneasiness in his voice.

"So? She's as good as dead. I said what would happen if the mudblood slut lied to us. So, let's bring her in, maybe there'll be a bed."

Hermione whimpered, her shredded fingers digging into the dirt, as if somehow that would keep her there, and they wouldn't be able to drag her away. "_Please…_" She choked out silently. She was glad they didn't hear her, because it wasn't for them, it was for _him_.

But that didn't matter now, because suddenly she was hauled up into the air and slung over a broad back, and the impact winded her and stole her breath.

* * *

><p>There was blood on the door step, and it splattered a garish trail through the living room, beyond the door that had been blown off it's hinges. Draco felt physically ill, his stomach doing fitful somersaults. He couldn't be too late? Could he?<p>

He didn't look twice at the elf as he shoved through the kitchen, his eyes scanning over broken furniture and into every corner of each room, _searching. _He ran to the stairs, taking two at a time. He couldn't hear anything, which meant the Death Eaters were either lying in wait, or had long gone. He didn't dare admit that he hoped they had left Granger behind. Then again, maybe it would be better for her if they had taken her, if she— _No_.

Right away he saw the second broken door, the one at the far end of the landing, the room that had been _hers. _He couldn't feel his feet as he moved across the wood, he didn't even think about breathing, and most of all he didn't let himself think of this as fear. Because fearing for another person, a mudblood, Granger, was foreign, and _wrong. _

Draco still had her wand in his pocket, and he could feel it pulsing against his thigh, begging to be returned to it's owner, that magical pull which allowed a small hope to brew inside of him. So he moved forward. He pushed aside what was left of the door, and was greeted by blood, so much blood. It was nearly black against the torn bedsheets, and the wooden bed posts were splintered and detached. And then he saw her. She'd fallen from the bed, had seemingly crawled over to the window seat, against which she had collapsed. Her hand was still outstretched, reaching for the light, for something she recognised.

Her body was awkward, splayed with haphazard limbs and broken dreams, and when Draco caught sight of her back he sucked in a sharp breath. He could see the red, the flesh, but he could also see the pure white of bone, and nothing had ever seemed so wrong, so evil.

She did not move, not one bit, and Draco could not, would _not_, go to her, not yet, he had to check. He had to make sure. He checked the cottage, room by room, unseeing, unfeeling, but there was no one there. They were alone.

He came back to her side, she was still the same. It was so wrong. It was like witnessing a butterfly, beautiful and strong, having it's wings torn off, and then thrown to the ground. It was Decay. He didn't even care about how or why he had made the connection between beauty and the scene before him. He crouched down, tentatively, and bent towards her.

Her face was facing the wall, away from him, and Draco reached a hand out to move the knots of her hair away, so he could see. So he could _know_. Her cheeks were nearly black, worse than Weasley had been, and there was blood pooling from below her jaw and onto the floorboards.

Draco made to move away, because his legs felt unstable and his hand was shaking, and he felt the bile coming now, the burning disgust, and something else. Something that had been there for sometime, something he would never care to recognise. But then her eyelids fluttered open, her lashes which were wet and clumped with tears, her lashes which stuttered just like the shredded wings of that dying butterfly, and Draco would never be sure if he could ever feel a relief as strong as this again in his whole life.

"Granger—" That wasn't his voice, it couldn't be his. He would never allow such… Such emotion, to thread it's way into his words. But there it was. He leaned forward again, quickly, too quickly, because dizziness specked his vision, but he managed to catch the parting of her lips, the small breath which escaped her that must have cost her the world. A world of pain. "Granger…"

Why couldn't he stay quiet? Why did he have to say anything? She was going to die. They both knew it. Then why did he have to speak? Why couldn't he just walk out of the room and let her die, just like he would have done years ago. Like he wished he had done when he had found her in London. Like he should have done. Like he _wanted_ to do. But he just couldn't. So what was he going to say? 'It'll be okay?' That was bullshit.

"It— It'll—" He stopped himself. She tilted her head, just a fraction, just that one little bit which was probably all she could manage. But she did it. Because she was strong and she was a fucking Gryffindor through and through.

"…Draco…" It was a puff, barely a whisper, but he'd heard it. Her voice was so fragile, so damaged. And he didn't know what confused him more, the use of his first name, or how the hell she could still be alive.

And then she coughed, sickeningly and jagged like a shard of glass, cutting his air in half. Blood splattered down her chin, and onto his hands. How had his hands gotten there? It didn't matter, nothing mattered. He was moving her chin, cupping her head. And why didn't it repulse him? Why wasn't he backed against the far wall, disgusted at her dirty blood. Because it was everywhere, it was all over him. But he didn't even see it. "Sh-shut up. Don't say anything."

But of course she wouldn't listen. Why did he think she would? "… You… you came." Because she was Hermione Granger. And she'd been broken, tortured, and he was Draco Malfoy, the very person who should have done the torturing. But instead he'd come back. He'd dropped everything, for a mudblood who was dying, for a girl he used to hate. Did he not hate her anymore then? Now that she was going to leave, to die, did that mean it was okay to stop hating her?

He didn't know, maybe he never would. But right now he couldn't even think. He just yelled, loud and gravelly, distorted to his own unhearing ears. He yelled and he shouted until there were the pattering of little feet on the steps, and then there was the elf, beside him and pale, and when he looked up to meet it's eyes he couldn't see. It was blurry, everything was blurry and wet. _Fuck._

_"_We'll heal her…" The elf looked at him, and he saw pity. "We're… We'll fix her." _Pity. _"WE'RE GOING TO FIX HER! DO YOU HEAR ME?_"_

So they did. Because Malfoy's always got what they wanted. And somehow, beyond all logical reason, Draco Malfoy wanted Hermione Granger to stay alive.

* * *

><p>She was Hermione Granger, and she must find Harry Potter. Because he was hope. He was the light at the end of a very long tunnel. She couldn't wrap her fingers around the curses that she had suffered. She couldn't do anything. And she couldn't think. She wasn't there. It was just her body, broken, a shell of a contorted life, taken young, and shown a war. She screamed and she groaned, and she didn't rest. She would never rest. Not until she found Harry.<p>

* * *

><p>Draco had done everything he could. He would not thank the elf, because it wasn't something that deserved to be thanked. It had done what it had to. It had fulfilled it's duties. Something which Draco hadn't been able to do.<p>

So now it was just him and Granger, alone in a dark room. She, lying very still on the bed, and he on the wicker chair, perched at the edge so he blocked the moonlight from hitting her face. Because when it shone on her she moaned, when it shone on her he could see the scrapes and burns and bruises that lingered there. When it shone on her, he was faced with what was real, what had happened, something he could have stopped. Would he have, though? Would he have stopped them if he had come any sooner? He'd like to think he wouldn't have, but Draco was no fool, he had come far enough to not be so ignorant as to cling to a past that was slipping through his fingers faster than sand.

* * *

><p>She was Hermione Granger, and she must find her friend. Because he was someone important. He was bright, and warm like the sun, and she loved him very much. But something had happened, something bad. And it had hurt. So,<em> so<em> much.

* * *

><p>Draco tugged at his hair, too long and in his face. He didn't think of cutting it, he didn't think of <em>himself.<em> And that was what was most startling. Not the fact that Hermione Granger had almost died in front of him, for the second time. Not how he had healed a girl he should have let die. Not how deep down he always knew he would do what he had done. Because three years ago atop the astronomy tower, his Headmaster had told him that he wasn't a killer. Maybe Draco always knew that were true, but it didn't mean he had believed it for a second. Yet for the first time in his whole life, Draco had done something selfless, and that, was what was most startling. He'd known he wasn't a killer, but also knew he most certainly wasn't a _hero._

What was he then? Too stubborn to go forwards, yet too lost to go backwards. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, grazing them on stubble, and he bent forwards. If someone had walked into the room at that moment, unaware of what had happened, they might just see a man, concerned for a woman. They wouldn't know that the woman was dying, or that the man was battling with the knowledge of his new found emotions, fighting with the life that had been chosen for him, the path which until very recently, he had been blindly following.

Yet somewhere along the line, along the tediously winding road, he had taken a sharp turn, veered off the tracks. And he would never really know, if this had been for the better, or worse.

He stared at the girl in front of him, at the girl he'd never believed would become a woman, and was overcome with a realisation, that yes, that was when he had begun to _care_.

* * *

><p>She was Hermione Granger, and she must find someone. Because she had to. She didn't know who, or why. But right now everything just <em>hurt.<em>

* * *

><p><em>It was that year, the year where his whole life had been grabbed and shaken and then thrown into a fucked up heap. The year where he <em>failed. _His self hatred had boiled into a steady tide, lapping at the edges of everything it touched, casting salt in his wounds and freezing them over with icy water. He just couldn't handle it, he couldn't handle the inevitable, what the Dark Lord had known would happen as soon as he had dished him his task. He was like the dog who had been fed poisoned meat by his master, and he hadn't _known. _He had eaten it gratefully, consumed every last morsel, and had then been left to starve, to rot in his own mislead guidance until he withered and _failed.

_He had wandered the hallways, agitated and reckless, and he'd wound up in the bathroom. He'd needed to cleanse, to wipe the taint and the doom from his face, because otherwise his potions master would know, he always knew. So Draco had perfected his mind's cage, had locked himself in and thrown away the key. No one could enter, no one could shuffle through his thoughts and find out what he knew to be a lost cause, because then it would be the end. He would be killed. _

_The cool water had been a refreshing segment of a torment that would only continue, but it had been a breather, a flood of calm. Until he'd looked up at the mirror, at his own haunted features mocking him from a reflective world, and it'd just been too much. He'd snapped, punched the glass, watched in satisfaction as the fragments rained down in front of him to mix with the red of his blood. _

_And then he'd heard it, the quiet intake of breath, a breath which hadn't been his own, and he'd panicked because someone now _knew_. But then he'd turned around and there she was, Potter's know-it-all mudblood, and she was looking at him with some damn fucking mixture of fear and pity. The fear he could handle, the fear he was glad for, but not the pity. Never the pity. _

_Yet he knew she would never tell anyone about what she'd seen, just like he wouldn't, because it was impossible. That moment had been their own, their own small minute of a vast time warp that would stretch on forever. _

_He'd held her gaze, but it wasn't a challenge. It was as if he'd wanted to say, "go on, run away. Just like you want to. Just like everyone else would. Hate me like I hate you. Hate me like I deserve. Because I failed." But her brown eyes had just stared, wide with wonder, and for some reason it was as if he didn't want her to think he'd failed. Yet it had also felt like a violation, like someone as good as her shouldn't deserve to witness this, this demented form of evil. And during that moment he hadn't once stopped to think that that didn't matter, because she already was dirty, she was a mudblood, and he shouldn't care about what she thought._

_But he had. He had cared. Even if it was just a tiny sliver buried beneath piles of hate and confusion. He cared about what she thought. _

_Then she'd fled, and she'd taken the moment with her. Because after she was gone and Draco was alone with his blood and the broken mirror, he couldn't recall if what had happened had been real or not._

* * *

><p>She was Hermione Granger. And she woke up screaming.<p>

* * *

><p>Draco snapped violently out of his sleep. It hadn't been sleep though, it had been a vivid recollection of memories, and he'd been brutally shoved back into reality because Granger was awake, and she was yelling and shouting things that he couldn't even understand.<p>

She'd thrown the covers off, and was struggling up when Draco flung himself to the bed side, shoving her down harshly, yet not harsh enough, and hushing her as if she were a child, because if she moved, she would tear open all of his hard work, and it would be for nothing. And he really had not expected her to be awake so soon, but she was a bloody Gryffindor, so he supposed he shouldn't really be surprised.

He was about to say something along those lines, for her to shut up and rest and that now wasn't the time to be stupid, but she spoke first, and what she said made him step back, a slap in the face.

"W-Where am I? What am I doing here? Who… Who are you?"


	9. Filth in the Beauty

**Song rec: Keaton Henson 'Nearly Curtains'**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 9: Filth in the Beauty<strong>

Draco stared at her. His eyes digging into her, scaring her, because she looked scared, and he could almost hear the racing of her pulse, and smell the fear in her wide eyes.

"Bullshit, Granger." He flung out, because this could_ not_ be a joke. Not after he had found her so close to death. Not after everything he had just realised. Yet he knew, he could tell she wasn't lying to him. Why would she?

"G-Granger? How… How do you know my name?" She mumbled, it was unusual, soft, _innocent_.

No, she couldn't be lying. Although, she was Granger, and he was Malfoy, and he supposed she would have every reason to lie to him. He had to find out for sure. Relaxing as best he could and pushing past the boundaries of another person's thoughts, he entered her mind.

Images, vivid, colourful. They surrounded him like walls, begging for his attention. Two people, a man and a woman, both with bright, happy smiles, looked down at him, down at the stranger they couldn't see, with a fondness he didn't deserve.

Warm sunshine and the sound of crickets, the melted juice of an iced lolly dripping down Granger's skin. Summer. And he could feel the sticky heat of it.

Rows upon rows of desks, paper thick with words, and books, so many books. Girls giggled with scorn, eyeing Granger with contempt, and their shared vision was forced down, back to books, back to _her_ world. But it wasn't the school memories he was looking for. It wasn't Hogwarts.

He shuffled further, deeper. Birthdays, cake, lots of cake, but she wasn't allowed to have much because it would rot her teeth, said the woman, the same woman from before. Then she was in a chair, hard leather and a crick in her neck, and the masked people above her were shoving metal _things_ in her mouth. He couldn't sense any traces of panic emitting from Granger's memory, even though whatever procedure the muggles had been performing on her mouth was bloody bizarre, so Draco pressed on.

A walk home from school, the pavement grey and cracked beneath her brown school shoes. Their laces were tied neatly, prim with bows, and it was so very Grangery. Then she was pushed, knocked to the side as the same giggling girls rushed ahead. When she looked up from the ground, her palms, small and pale, were scraped and bleeding.

Draco skipped ahead, uncomfortable with the feeling of rage that had been induced within him, when he witnessed, and felt, Granger's outcast and sadness. But then, who was he to have that right? That right to _feel _angry_,_ when he had done those very things to her, teased and bullied her continuously, how had Granger reacted then?

The prominent memories stuck out like sharp thumbtacks, stabbing him and pulling him in. There was a mirror, her bedroom, and he looked at the reflection, at a young Granger. She felt older. But she didn't like what she saw, and he felt himself drown in her disappointment. He watched as her hand rose to touch her hair, and then pull on it angrily. He couldn't stop her, because time stood in the way. He could only stare and listen, listen to her wishes about looking like someone else, anyone else. She hated the very strands which he too had condemned her for having, but somehow he couldn't summon up his mutual agreement of it's inferiority. He couldn't rejoice in her angst. Because instead he wanted to reach out, to caress it, to tell her, "stop it, you're beautiful."

He was roughly pulled into a later time, into a room she'd shown him frequently, her living room, and he could hear the preparation of dinner. She was watching a strange black box, observing the coloured images flashing on it. Granger knew it well, it was familiar, but not to Draco. Then there was pain, a dull aching across her abdomen, and it was one of the most troubling and uncomfortable sensations Draco had ever felt. He watched as Granger's hand moved down to the waistband of her pyjama pants. Pain everywhere.

Then there was the white of the toilet bowel, and Draco inwardly blushed and repressed a cringe when he couldn't stop Granger from pulling her pants down, and there was blood staining the white of her knickers. Her first period. She cried, and he felt embarrassed. Nervous, even. Because if Granger ever found out he'd been this far into her memories, he was sure she would murder him.

Draco forced aside his embarrassment. He needed to get there, to her later memories, to when she began Hogwarts, when she first met him. He needed to _know_.

And then he was brutally shoved backwards, like he'd come into sudden contact with a brick wall. There was just blackness, black everywhere, nothing. He could go no further, because for some reason there _wasn't _anything there.

She clearly couldn't remember anything beyond that point.

She hadn't been lying.

Draco pulled himself out, leaving the tangle of her memories and sucking in his surroundings as soon as he found himself back in his own head.

Granger was still staring at him in the dimness, except she'd retreated to the far corner of the bed, and had the covers pulled tightly up to her chin between her quaking fingers.

Draco didn't want to dwell on how the sight of her being frightened of him made him feel a tad queazy. "Grang— Hermione." It was best if he used her first name. It felt strange, yet oddly comfortable on his tongue.

If he was going to make this easier for both of them, then he needed to see her, needed for her to be able to see _him_. He needed to make sure she felt safe. He was just about to draw out his wand and use it to flick on the lamp, but hesitated. No, he couldn't use magic, not just yet. Because if it were really true, if she couldn't remember anything about Hogwarts, about the Wizarding world, she would not take well to suddenly witnessing magic firsthand. Draco suppressed a frustrated growl, and slowly eased himself up onto his stiff knees and made his way around the bed and to the little side table the lamp sat on.

As he bent to reach for the switch, the covers shifted noisily and Granger shuffled further away from him. Her purposeful evasion was annoying him, but he didn't say anything. He turned the lamp on quickly, his fingers a little too numb for his liking, and then took a somewhat tentative step back. "There," He huffed.

Now, in the warm, glowing light of the room, he could track each and every one of her pale bruises, from her jaw, to her cheekbones, and then up to the bridge of her nose, curving daintily around her eyes, large doe eyes, which were now staring up at him with confusion. "T-there, what?"

Draco swallowed uncomfortably. "There, the lamp's on now."

She just looked at him.

He crossed his arms, partly to maintain his nonchalance to the whole situation, and mainly to stop himself from reaching out to her and forcing her to remember. "Do you… Need anything? Water?"

She cleared her throat, and when she next spoke it was that Grangery voice, that no nonsense tone. "I'd like to go home. Take me home now, please."

Take her home? So she could meet another Death Eater? So she could slowly remember her recent past of an excruciating torture? Draco knew that the cruciatas curses she would have faced had been detrimental to her memory. And he also knew that victims only had a slim chance of regaining them, let alone sustaining sanity, and to those that were lucky enough, the process was difficult, and long. Very long. No. He wouldn't take her home, not even if he could. Because there was no way he would be explaining to her that her parents were missing. Yes, he knew they were missing. How could they not be? How could any muggle-born still be lucky enough to have parents?

"I can't do that." He stated simply.

He saw Granger take a deep breath, and he hurriedly averted his eyes from her torn and blood encrusted shirt. Thank god she hadn't noticed the state of her clothes yet. "Listen… I don't know what happened, what we, um… _did_. But I know mummy won't be happy. So… I promise I won't tell anyone about us… As long as you take me home."

Draco gawked. He didn't think he'd ever been in such an awkward situation as this before. Ever. "_What?_"

Granger looked sheepish, but continued. "Well… I can't remember last night for the life of me. And I have no idea who you are, but we must have exchanged names before, you _know_…" She blushed, and turned her head to the side to stare at the lamp, as if it brought her solace.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm so sorry, you probably told me your name last night, but I really can't recall it. I must have had too many drinks—"

"It's Mal—" She looked up at him suddenly, and he realised then that her eyes no longer contained that spark of burning loathing which they'd always held when looking at him. There was no knowledge of an eight year old hate. Just confusion. He couldn't tell if this made him glad. "Draco. It's Draco."

"Right," She nodded, as if confirming that no, she really hadn't ever heard of his name before. And then she giggled. "That's a funny name."

Draco felt his arms untangle, and fall limply at his sides. He was baffled. Here she was, giggling. Didn't she feel pain? Maybe her memories had taken all of the pain away with them. Either way, this new Granger was making him testy.

"Anyway," She went on. "I'm sure last night was… _amazing—"_

"What?" She clicked her tongue, tutting at him. What the actual _fuck?_

"Didn't we… you know… make love?"

Draco paused, confusion rapidly settling into each one of his pores. And then he felt as if someone had come along behind him and stuck frozen toothpicks into his spine. "Why— Why would you think that?"

Granger tittered again, and turned her gaze back to the bloody lamp as she covered her mouth with her hand. "Well… Why else would I be in so much pain… down there?"

Realisation hit him, cold and hard in the face, in the back, on every nerve ending.

_Raped._

Hermione Granger, strong and brave hearted Gryffindor, best friend of Potter and Weasley, had been _raped. _Tortured, beaten, no doubt restrained, because even Draco knew that a girl like her would never have given up without a fight. Her struggle must have been massive, she must have put as much strength in as she could. But in the end it had all been for nothing. In the end he hadn't came in time to stop it. He had stopped it once. That first time, back in London. But he hadn't thought too hard on it, hadn't realised he _cared_.

And here she was now, embarrassed, in the very room where it had happened, in the very _bed. _And he hadn't known. She didn't even now. She thought that _he_ was the one who had fucked her.

Draco couldn't move, couldn't speak. He knew that she must be looking at him, waiting for him to say something. So he did. "Y-yeah, right. Sorry, about that." His voice was hoarse, his throat parched, and he just continued to stare at his feet. He felt like keeling over, like spilling the contents of his stomach onto the floorboards. The floorboards which had been drenched with her blood only hours ago.

"Draco? Are you alright? You look ill." Grangers voice was so quiet, so low within the torrid air, the air in which she had almost died. And she didn't even know. He would _not_ let her know. But then she screamed, just like she had upon waking, and immediately he was at her side, doing what he had wanted to do several times since she had opened her eyes.

She was stiff in his arms, unyielding, trying to shove him away. But he wouldn't, _couldn't_, relinquish his hold. He didn't hear what she was saying to him, everything was muffled. Everything except the fragility of her bones, bones which had been broken and visible earlier that day. Everything except the metallic tang that still haunted his nostrils, the overpowering memory of blood which cast a shadow on whatever quality could possibly be owned by _her. _

But then he realised, he heard what she'd been trying to say, his name repeatedly, and there was that fear again. That fear which he now knew he despised. "_Draco._" Her wrists were weak, her pushes against his chest futile, but then he moved back to the edge of the bed, and watched as her hands pulled at her shirt.

Dammit, why hadn't he thought of casting a concealment charm on her before she woke?

"Draco, there's blood all over me!" She yelled.

Because he'd been too fucking worried. That's why. Too distraught. Too preoccupied.

"Calm down, Gra— Hermione. It's just wine." Thank god for his quick Slytherin cunning.

She crinkled her brows, sniffing at her shoulders. "It doesn't smell like wine."

"You're deluded." He walked to the wardrobe, filled with garments his mother had picked out for her sister. "Here." He mumbled, throwing her a deep green coloured dressing gown, the same one the elf had put her in, the first time he'd brought her here.

"It's alright, I can just change when I get home."

"What, and make your parents think you almost died?" His voice was heavy with both the lie and the truth, the unwanted paradox. "Not likely."

She sighed dejectedly, and then looked up at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to leave the room. He hesitantly complied, knowing that as soon as she took her clothes off she would see the remnants of her battered body, the barely there bruises that stuck to her skin like a disease.

He closed the bedroom door behind him and leant against it wearily. Only now did he allow the full flogging of his fatigue to wash over him. Relief, exhaustion, and that annoyingly persistent worry, were the feelings rushing through him and blending into one great big pile of fucks he shouldn't feel the need to give.

Any second now, she would be screaming at him, demanding to know what had happened to her, and what would he say? You were almost killed, you were raped? The word made him feel like breaking something, like tearing down anything that blocked his path of hatred. Maybe he'd tell her that she was a witch, and that she was best friends with two sods who didn't deserve her, one who had been the beacon to the wizarding world, and the other who could gladly go and die in a pit and not be noticed. Then he'd say there had been a war, there was a still a war, and you were so goddamn stubborn that you never failed to realise that you'd lost. But none of that mattered now, because if he said any of that she would probably think he was a lunatic, maybe she'd even cry, and for some reason that was the last thing Draco wanted her to do.

There was a soft noise on the other side of the door, and he pushed his weight off the wood as soon as she opened it, her tired face looked up at him and for a moment he was shocked to see the slight traces of mirth across her features. "What's the matter?" He rushed out.

There was that blush again, pink and daintily dusting across her cheeks. "The bruises…"

"Right… Sorry, if I, you know… was too rough." He stammered out, and she giggled. Oh, she wouldn't be laughing if she could see her own face, then it would be a matter of domestic violence, not just rough sex. He needed to do something, quickly, without her noticing, like casting a concealment charm on her to hide the facial evidence of her attack, of her imprisonment.

But what would she do if he suddenly took his wand out? If he pointed it at her face and mumbled strange words. Would everything come flooding back to her? He doubted that, it was more likely to scare the hell out of her. But he needed to try, because suddenly she was looking at him with that fear again, as if she were feeling regret about believing anything a stranger had told her, as if she were rethinking the whole 'sex with a stranger' thing. If only she knew that he wasn't a stranger, that he was actually her enemy. One would think that the vigilance one learnt from the war would be engraved permanently into the mind, unforgettable. He was almost disappointed, and she must have taken the change in his expression to mean something sinister, because she was backing away, letting the door fall closed in his face, and he needed to _act._

_"_Granger!" He followed her, reaching into his pocket for his wand, but she was faster, lobbing something hard and heavy towards him, which he ducked from just in time. Ah, the lamp, he realised, as the room was thrown into darkness.

"Stay away from me! Y-you drugged me, didn't you? You—"

"Granger, shut up, listen—"

"You're a psychopath!" She shrieked, and he could hear the tears in her voice.

"No—"

"You brought me here, and you— you violated me—"

"Hermione—"

"Don't you dare say my name! You sick bastard!" Her voice cracked, and so did something inside of his chest.

"Listen—"

"S-stay… away." And then her sobs overcame her, and she cried. He heard the slumping of her slim figure as she fell to the ground, and then her muffled tears, she must have been hiding her face, shying away from him as if he were a monster. Maybe that's what he was, and all he'd ever be, because as he gingerly stepped towards her hunched shape in the corner, he drew out his wand, knowing that what he would do next would be entirely _selfish._

"Granger… I'm sorry." He wordlessly cast the _obliviate _charm, entering, stealing what wasn't his, planting lies which he knew she would believe. She would wake up and think what he wanted her to think, and then things would be okay.

Except she wasn't okay, she would never be okay, not until she was back to being the Hermione Granger he'd first known.

Draco lowered his arm, carefully bending to pick up her limp body, the softness of the gown stopping any unnecessary contact with flesh, and he set her on the bed in what he deemed to be a comfortable position.

Then he reached down to retrieve her stained clothes. He would burn them, burn away the essence of war and pain, of a death which had been so, _so_ close. He looked at her still form one last time before exiting the room, one last time before she woke with false memories, before her life would no longer be_ hers. _And all he could do was wait.

* * *

><p>Draco wasn't as skilled in memory magic as he was in Legilimency. Legilimency was easy, an invasion, some would even call it thievery, but manipulating memories was a much more difficult thing to get right. Because even the slightest slip up could produce an entirely different, unwanted result. Draco didn't know if Granger would wake up with the memories he had planted in her mind, but if she didn't and she was screaming to all hell then it was quite possible that he had damaged her even further.<p>

How would he feel if she never remembered magic? Pissed off? Fucked over? Why? He didn't know. But as much as he'd always denied the muggle born girl's ability to perform magic, he'd always known she was capable. Why else would she be stupid enough to hang around with the wonder duo? Somehow it just seemed like a colossal waste if someone as adept as her were to just forget, to just slip back into the bland, mundane life of a muggle. He _hated _the idea.

Draco tried not to feel embarrassed at what he had attempted to tamper with in her mind. He'd created details of a pre-existing relationship between Granger and himself, and fuck he must have gone crazy, because he'd actually conjured up certain scenarios in his mind, vivid images to make her believe something had actually happened between the two of them last night. Just like she had previously instigated when she had first woken.

He almost tasted blood as he clamped his teeth together forcibly. He would _not_ get all hot and bothered over something that hadn't even happened. Yes, he'd had to think about it in order to transfer it to Granger and make it stick in her mind as something memorable. Yes, it'd been bloody awkward and wrong on so many levels, and yes it'd been damn long since he'd last had a decent fuck.

His hand didn't cut it, and really, who had time for a wank when there was a war going on? Let alone when it had just been him and his mother in Italy, it'd just seemed down right indecent. He could have had a go with any willing pureblood witch in England, but the thought hadn't willingly crossed his mind, as who would want to sleep with a failure? A Malfoy failure at that. Nobody.

He'd had his fair share of late night, lusty encounters throughout his later years at Hogwarts, before he'd been classed as a failure, but since then everything had been on a drastic decline. And if Draco were to admit the truth to himself, sexual release wasn't something which he regularly thought about lately.

Until about an hour ago, when he'd had to create the image of him and Granger going at it. Fuck. How was he supposed to walk into that room now without his mind slipping away into unclean territory. Unclean. Dirty. Yes, because as much as he'd been unknowingly starting to think otherwise, she was still a mudblood. _Mudblood_. And just like that any of his blood which may or may not have been travelling south, stopped.

A mudblood. A mudblood who had been raped. And then he'd had to imagine himself fucking her. It made him feel disgusted. He willed himself to believe this was because of who she was, and not about what had happened, or about how he wanted to go and find the men who did that to her and kill them where they stood.

But then why had he made her forget? Made her remember untrue things? Things that would make her stay with him. Willingly. He didn't want her to leave. She couldn't leave. But he still needed to hate her. He needed to. Because otherwise the last thing he had been clinging to, the last thing that still made him deserve the name Malfoy, would slip away from him. And then he'd be royally fucked.

So he needed to pretend. To play along with the game he'd started. Because even if he hated her he still wanted her to live. And she would most certainly die if she left the cottage, or if he wasn't there to protect her. Protect. What a hideous, vile word. The only thing Draco had ever protected before had been his honour, honour which was on a one way trip down the drain, because an honourable Malfoy would never degrade himself to the care of a mudblood. He didn't want to think about how that word seemed even more vile, even more horrid, than 'protect.'

He needed to cool it, to keep a level head, because if he didn't then Granger would begin to think she had a nutter for a boyfriend. He shuddered at the word boyfriend. It would only be temporary. Because soon enough she would remember everything. She _had _to. She wasn't weak, she couldn't give up. Because the sorting hat hadn't sorted her into bloody Gryffindor for nothing. Yes, she had to remember. His memory charm would help her remain calm and unquestioning, and would leave plenty of space for her to recover, for her to _heal_.

Draco's thoughts crept steadily around in his head until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, and he slumped further down into the chair by the living room fire. Then he fell into an uncomfortable sleep, his knuckles digging painfully into his cheek.


End file.
